Pox o' your friends, that dote and domineer!

Lovers are better friends than they :

Let's those in other things obey;
The Fates, and Stars, and Gods, must govern here.

Vain names of blood ! in love let none
Advise with any blood, but with their own.
'Tis that which bids me this bright maid adore ;

No other thought has had access !

Did she now beg, I'd love no less,
And, were she an empress, I should love no more:

Were she as just and true to me,
Ah, simple soul! what would become of thee?

HOPE! whose weak being ruin'd is,
Alike, if it succeed, and if it miss;
Whom good or ill does equally confound,
And both the horns of Fate's dilemma wound:

Vain shadow! which dost vanish quite,

Both at full noon and perfect night! The stars have not a possibility

Of blessing thee;
If things then from their end we happy call,
'Tis Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.

Hope! thou bold taster of delight,
Who, whilst thou shouldst but taste, devour'st it

quite !

Thou bring'st us an estate, yet leavest us poor,
By clogging it with legacies before !
The joys which we entire should wed,
Come deflower'd virgins to our bed;

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Good fortunes without gain imported be,

Such mighty custom's paid to thee. For joy, like wine, kept close does better taste; If it take air before, its spirits waste.

Hope! Fortune's cheating lottery ! Where for one prize an hundred blanks there be; Fond archer, Hope! who takest thy aim so far, That still or short or wide thine arrows are!

Thin, empty cloud, which the eye deceives

With shapes that our own fancy gives !
A cloud, which gilt and painted now appears,

But must drop presently in tears !
When thy false beams o'er Reason's light prevail,
By Ignes Fatui for North-stars we sail.

Brother of Fear, more gayly clad ! The merrier fool o' the two, yet quite as mad: Sire of Repentance! child of fond Desire ! That blow'st the chemics, and the lovers, fire,

Leading them still insensibly on

By the strange witchcraft of “ Anon!"
By thee the one does changing Nature, through

Her endless labyrinths, pursue ;
And the other chases Woman, whilst she

goes More ways

and turns than hunted Nature knows.

FOR HOPE. Hope! of all ills that men endure, The only cheap and universal cure! Thou captive's freedom, and thou sick man's health; Thou loser's victory, and thou beggar's wealth !

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Thou manna, which from heaven we eat,

taste a several meat!
Thou strong retreat! thou sure-entail'd estate,

Which nought has power to alienate ! Thou pleasant, honest flatterer ! for none Flatter unhappy men, but thou alone !

Hope! thou first-fruits of happiness! Thou gentle dawning of a bright success! Thou good preparative, without which our joy Does work too strong, and, whilst it cures, destroy!

Who out of Fortune's reach dost stand,

And art a blessing still in hand!
Whilst thee, her earnest-money, we retain,

We certain are to gain,
Whether she' her bargain break, or else fulfil;
Thou only good, not worse for ending ill!

Brother of Faith! 'twixt whom and thee
The joys of heaven and earth divided be!
Though Faith be heir, and have the fix'd estate,
Thy portion yet in moveables is great.

Happiness itself’s all one

In thee, or in possession !
Only the future's thine, the present his ! !

Thine's the more hard and noble bliss :
Best apprehender of our joys ! which hast
So long a reach, and yet canst hold so fast!

Hope! thou sad lovers' only friend !
Thou Way, that mayst dispute it with the End!
For Love, I fear, 's a fruit that does delight
The taste itself less than the smell and sight.

Fruition more deceitful is
Than thou canst be, when thou dost miss ;

Men leave thee by obtaining, and straight flee

Some other way again to thee ;
And that's a pleasant country, without doubt,
To which all soon return that travel out.

I LITTLE thought, thou fond ingrateful sin !

When first I let thee in,
And gave thee but a part

my unwary heart,
That thou wouldst e'er have grown
So false or strong to make it all thine own.

At mine own breast with care I fed thee still,

Letting thee suck thy fill;
And daintily I nourish’d thee
With idle thoughts and poetry!

What ill returns dost thou allow !-
I fed thee then, and thou dost starve me now.

There was a time when thou wast cold and chill,

Nor hadst the power of doing ill ;
Into my bosom did I take
This frozen and benumbed snake,

Not fearing from it any harm ;
But now it stings that breast which made it warm.
What cursed weed's this Love! but one grain sow,

And the whole field 'twill overgrow ;
Straight will it choke up and devour
Each wholesome herb and beauteous flower!

Nay, unless something soon I do, "Twill kill, I fear, my very laurel too.



But now all's gone-I now, alas ! complain,

Declare, protest, and threat, in vain;
Since, by my own unforced consent,
The traitor has my government,

And is so settled in the throne,
That 'twere rebellion now to claim mine own.

THE FRAILTY. I KNOW 'tis sordid and 'tis low (All this as well as you I know) Which I so hotly now pursue (I know all this as well as you);

But, whilst this cursed flesh I bear, And all the weakness and the baseness there, Alas! alas ! it will be always so.

In vain, exceedingly in vain,
I rage sometimes, and bite my chain ;
Yet to what purpose do I bite
With teeth which ne'er will break it quite ?

For, if the chiefest Christian Head
Was by this sturdy tyrant buffeted,
What wonder is it if weak I be slain?

COLDNESS. As water fluid is, till it do grow

Solid and fix'd by cold ;
So in warm seasons Love does loosely flow;

Frost only can it hold:
A woman's rigour, and disdain,
Does his swift course restrain.

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