The Home Book of Verse, vol 2 | Page 6

live.
O, if Love shall live, O where, But in her eye, or in her ear, In her breast, or in her breath, Shall I hide poor Love from death? For in the life aught else can give, Love shall die, although he live.
Or, if Love shall die, O where, But in her eye, or in her ear, In her breath, or in her breast, Shall I build his funeral nest? While Love shall thus entombed lie, Love shall live, although he die!
Richard Crashaw [1613?-1649]
"AH, HOW SWEET IT IS TO LOVE!" From "Tyrannic 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: Even 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 [1631-1700]
SONG
Love still has something of the sea, From whence his Mother rose; No time his slaves from doubt can free, Nor give their thoughts repose.
They are becalmed in clearest days, And in rough weather tossed; 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.
'Tis cruel to prolong a pain; And to defer a joy, Believe me, gentle Celemene, Offends the winged boy.
An hundred thousand oaths your fears, Perhaps, would not remove; And if I gazed a thousand years, I could no deeper love.
Charles Sedley [1639?-1710]
THE VINE From "Sunday Up the River"
The wine of Love is music, And the feast of Love is song: And when Love sits down to the banquet, Love sits long:
Sits long and arises drunken, But not with the feast and the wine; He reeleth with his own heart, That great, rich Vine.
James Thomson [1834-1882]
SONG
Fain would I change that note To which fond love hath charmed me, Long, long to sing by rote, Fancying that that harmed me: Yet when this thought doth come, - Love is the perfect sum Of all delight. I have no other choice Either for pen or voice To sing or write.
O love, they wrong thee much That say thy sweet is bitter When thy rich fruit is such As nothing can be sweeter. Fair house of joy and bliss Where truest pleasure is, I do adore thee: I know thee what thou art, I serve thee with my heart, And fall before thee.
Unknown
CUPID STUNG
Cupid once upon a bed Of roses laid his weary head; Luckless urchin, not to see Within the leaves a slumbering bee. The bee awaked - with anger wild The bee awaked, and stung the child. Loud and piteous are his cries; To Venus quick he runs, he flies; "Oh Mother! I am wounded through - I die with pain - in sooth I do! Stung by some little angry thing, Some serpent on a tiny wing - A bee it was - for once, I know, I heard a rustic call it so." Thus he spoke, and she the while Heard him with a soothing smile; Then said, "My infant, if so much Thou feel the little wild bee's touch, How must the heart, ah, Cupid! be, The hapless heart that's stung by thee!"
Thomas Moore [1779-1852]
CUPID DROWNED
T'other day, as I was twining Roses, for a crown to dine in, What, of all things, 'mid the heap, Should I light on, fast asleep, But the little desperate elf, The tiny traitor, Love, himself! By the wings I picked him up Like a bee, and in a cup Of my wine I plunged and sank him, Then what d'ye think I did? - I drank him. Faith, I thought him dead. Not he! There he lives with ten-fold glee; And now this moment with his wings I feel him tickling my heart-strings.
Leigh Hunt [1784-1859]
SONG From "The Heir of Vironi"
Oh! say not woman's love is bought With vain and empty treasure. Oh! say not woman's heart is caught By every