LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY.

THE fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever

With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In one another's being mingle-
Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower would be forgiven
If it disdain'd its brother:
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea;-
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY.

OVER the mountains

And over the waves;
Under the fountains

And under the graves;
Under floods that are deepest,
Which Neptune obey;
Over rocks that are steepest,
Love will find out the way.

Where there is no place

For the glow-worm to lye; Where there is no space

For receipt of a fly;

Where the midge dares not venture,

Lest herself fast she lay;
If love come he will enter,
And soon find out his way.

You may esteem him
A child for his might;

Or you may deem him

A coward from his flight: But if she whom love doth honor Be conceal'd from the day, Set a thousand guards upon her, Love will find out the way.

Some think to lose him

By having him confined; And some do suppose him,

Poor thing, to be blind; But if ne'er so close ye wall him, Do the best that you may, Blind love, if so ye call him, Will find out his way.

You may train the eagle
To stoop to your fist;
Or you may inveigle

The phoenix of the East; The lioness, ye may move her

To give o'er her prey; But you'll ne'er stop a lover, He will find out his way.

AUTHOR UNKNOWN.

AH, HOW SWEET IT IS TO LOVE!

AH, how sweet it is to love!
Ah, how gay is young desire!
And what pleasing pains we prove
When we first approach love's fire!

Pains of love be sweeter far
Than all other pleasures are.

Sighs which are from lovers blown
Do but gently heave the heart;

E'en the tears they shed alone,

Cure, like trickling balm, their smart. Lovers, when they lose their breath, Bleed away in easy death.

Love and time with reverence use-
Treat them like a parting friend,
Nor the golden gifts refuse

Which in youth sincere they send;
For each year their price is more,
And they less simple than before.

Love, like spring-tides, full and high,
Swells in every youthful vein;
But each tide does less supply,
Till they quite shrink in again;
If a flow in age appear,

'Tis but rain, and runs not clear.

JOHN DRYDEN.

LOVE IS A SICKNESS. LOVE is a sickness full of woes,

All remedies refusing;

A plant that with most cutting grows, Most barren with best using:

Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies; If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries, Hey, ho!

Love is a torment of the mind,

A tempest everlasting;
And Jove hath made it of a kind
Not well, nor full, nor fasting:
Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries,
Hey, ho!

While in his leaves there shrouded lay Sweet birds, for love that sing and play; And of all love's joyful flame

I the bud and blossom am.

Only bend thy knee to me--
Thy wooing shall thy winning be.

See! see the flowers that below
Now freshly as the morning blow,
And of all, the virgin rose,
That as bright Aurora shows-
How they all unleavèd die,
Losing their virginity;
Like unto a summer shade,
But now born, and now they fade:
Everything doth pass away;
There is danger in delay.
Come, come, gather then the rose;
Gather it, or it you lose.
All the sand of Tagus' shore
In my bosom casts its ore;
All the valleys' swimming corn
To my house is yearly borne;
Every grape of every vine
Is gladly bruised to make me wine;
While ten thousand kings, as proud
To carry up my train, have bow'd;
And a world of ladies send me,
In my chambers to attend me;
All the stars in heaven that shine,
And ten thousand more, are mine.
Only bend thy knee to me-
Thy wooing shall thy winning be.

GILES FLETCHER

SAMUEL DANIEL.

PANGLORY'S WOOING SONG.
LOVE is the blossom where there blows
Everything that lives or grows:
Love doth make the heavens to move,
And the sun doth burn in love;
Love the strong and weak doth yoke,
And makes the ivy climb the oak,
Under whose shadows lions wild,
Soften'd by love, grow tame and mild.
Love no med'cine can appease;
He burns the fishes in the seas;

Not all the skill his wounds can stanch;
Not all the sea his fire can quench.
Love did make the bloody spear
Once a leafy coat to wear,

ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL.

LOVE in my bosom, like a bee,
Doth suck his sweet;

Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest:
Ah, wanton, will ye?

And if I sleep, then percheth he
With pretty flight,
And makes his pillow of my knee
The livelong night.

Strike I my lute, he tunes the string:
He music plays if so I sing;
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:
Whist, wanton, still ye :

Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence,

And bind you, when you long to play,
For your offence;

I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in,
I'll make you fast it for your sin,

I'll count your power not worth a pin :
Alas! what hereby shall I win,

If he gainsay me?

What if I beat the wanton boy

With many a rod?

He will repay me with annoy,

Because a god.

Then sit thou safely on my knee, And let thy bower my bosom be; Lurk in mine eyes,-I like of thee, O Cupid! so thou pity me,

Spare not, but play thee.

THOMAS LODGE.

"Tis cruel to prolong a pain;

And to defer a bliss, Believe me, gentle Hermoine, No less inhuman is.

A hundred thousand oaths your fears
Perhaps would not remove;
And if I gazed a thousand years,
I could no deeper love.

'Tis fitter much for you to guess
Than for me to explain,

But grant, oh! grant that happiness Which only does remain.

SIR CHARLES SEDLEY.

LOVE'S OMNIPRESENCE. WERE I as base as is the lowly plain, And you, my Love, as high as heaven above, Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain

Ascend to heaven, in honor of my Love. Were I as high as heaven above the plain, And you, my Love, as humble and as low As are the deepest bottoms of the main, Wheresoe'er you were, with you my love should go.

THE SEA.

LOVE still hath something of the sea,
From whence his mother rose;
No time his slaves from love can free,
Nor give their thoughts repose.

They are becalm'd in clearest days,
And in rough weather toss'd;
They wither under cold delays,
Or are in tempests lost.

One while they seem to touch the port;
Then straight into the main
Some angry wind, in cruel sport,
The vessel drives again.

At first disdain and pride they fear, Which if they chance to 'scape, Rivals and falsehood soon appear

In a more dreadful shape.

By such degrees to joy they come,
And are so long withstood;
So slowly they receive the sum,
It hardly does them good.

skies,

CUPID AND CAMPASPE. CUPID and my Campaspe playd At cardes for kisses; Cupid payd: He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, His mothers doves, and teame of sparrows Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lippe, the rose Growing on's cheek (but none knows how) With these, the crystal of his browe, And then the dimple of his chinne; All these did my Campaspe winne. At last he set her both his eyes, She won, and Cupid blind did rise.