Ah! what advice can I receive!

No, satisfy me first;
For who would physic-potions give

To one that dies with thirst?

A little puff of breath, we find,

Small fires can quench and kill ;
But, when they're great, the adverse wind

Does make them greater still.
Now whilst you speak, it moves me much,

But straight I'm just the same;
Alas! the effect must needs be such

Of cutting through a flame.


Come, doctor! use thy roughest art,

Thou canst not cruel prove;
Cut, burn, and torture every part,
To heal me


love. There is no danger, if the pain

Should me to a fever bring; Compared with heats I now sustain,

A fever is is so cool a thing

(Like drink which feverish men desire) That I should hope 'twould almost quench my fire.



Ask me not what my love shall do or be (Love, which is soul to body, and soul of me!)

When I am separated from thee;

Alas! I might as easily show, What after death the soul will do ; 'Twill last, I'm sure, and that is all we know.

The thing call’d soul will never stir nor move
But all that while a lifeless carcass prove;

For 'tis the body of my love:
Not that


love will fly away, But still continue; as, they say, Sad troubled ghosts about their graves do stray.


I chose the flourishing'st tree in all the park,

With freshest boughs and fairest head; I cut my love into his gentle bark,

And in three days, behold! 'tis dead : My very written flames so violent be, They've burnt and wither'd


the tree. How should I live myself, whose heart is found

Deeply graven every where
With the large history of many a wound,

Larger than thy trunk can bear?
With art as strange as Homer in the nut,
Love in

my heart has volumes put.


What a few words from thy rich stock did take

The leaves and beauties all,
As a strong poison with one drop does make

The nails and hairs to fall:
Love (I see now) a kind of witchcraft is,

Or characters could ne'er do this.

Pardon, ye birds and nymphs, who loved this shade;

And pardon me, thou gentle tree; I thought her name would thee have happy made,

And blessed omens hoped from thee: “Notes of my love, thrive here," said I, “and grow; And with


love do so.”
Alas, poor youth! thy love will never thrive!

This blasted tree predestines it; Go, tie the dismal knot (why shouldst thou live?)

And, by the lines thou there hast writ, Deform’dly hanging, the sad picture be

To that unlucky history.


'Tis a strange kind of ignorance this in you!

That you your victories should not spy,

Victories gotten by your eye! That your bright beams, as those of comets do,

Should kill, but not know how, nor who! That truly you my idol might appear,

Whilst all the people smell and see

The odorous flames I offer thee, Thou sitt'st, and dost not see, nor smell, nor hear,

Thy constant, zealous worshipper.

They see't too well who at my fires repine;

Nay, the' unconcern'd themselves do prove
Quick-eyed enough to spy my love;

; Nor does the cause in thy face clearlier shine,

Than the effect appears in mine. Fair infidel ! by what unjust decree

Must I, who with such restless care

Would make this truth to thee appear,
Must I, who preach it, and pray for it, be

Damn’d by thy incredulity?
I, by thy unbelief, am guiltless slain :

Oh, have but faith, and then, that you

May know that faith for to be true, It shall itself by a miracle maintain,

And raise me from the dead again! Meanwhile my hopes may seem to be o'erthrown;

But lovers' hopes are full of art,

And thus dispute-That, since my heart, Though in thy breast, yet is not by thee known,

Perhaps thou may'st not know thine own.

COME, let's go on, where love and youth does call;

I've seen too much, if this be all.
Alas! how far more wealthy might I be
With a contented ignorant poverty!

To show such stores, and nothing grant,

Is to enrage and vex my want.
For love to die an infant's lesser ill,
Than to live long, yet live in childhood still.

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We’ave both sat gazing only, hitherto,

As man and wife in picture do;
The richest crop of joy is still behind,
And he who only sees, in love, is blind.

So, at first, Pygmalion loved,

But the' armour at last improved ; The statue itself at last a woman grew, And so at last, my dear, should you

do too.

Beauty to man the greatest torture is,

Unless it lead to farther bliss,
Beyond the tyrannous pleasures of the eye;
It grows too serious a cruelty,

Unless it heal, as well as strike:

I would not, salamander-like, In scorching heats always to live desire, But, like a martyr, pass to heaven through fire.

Mark how the lusty sun salutes the spring,

And gently kisses every thing! His loving beams unlock each maiden flower, Search all the treasures, all the sweets devour :

Then on the earth, with bridegroom-heat,

He does still new flowers beget.
The sun himself, although all eye he be,
Can find in love more pleasure than to see.

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I TRY'D if books would cure my love, but found

Love made them nonsense all; l'apply'd receipts of business to my wound,

But stirring did the pain recall.

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