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- The Home Book of Verse, Volume 2 - 30/175 -

Thy wealth my love bestowed: And thy despised disdain too late shall find That none are fair but who are kind.

Thomas Stanley [1625-1678]


Love in thy youth, fair maid, be wise, Old Time will make thee colder, And though each morning new arise, Yet we each day grow older.

Thou as heaven art fair and young, Thine eyes like twin stars shining; But ere another day be sprung, All these will be declining;

Then winter comes with all his fears, And all thy sweets shall borrow; Too late then wilt thou shower thy tears, And I, too late, shall sorrow.



When, Celia, must my old day set, And my young morning rise In beams of joy so bright as yet Ne'er blessed a lover's eyes? My state is more advanced than when I first attempted thee: I sued to be a servant then, But now to be made free.

I've served my time faithful and true, Expecting to be placed In happy freedom, as my due, To all the joys thou hast: Ill husbandry in love is such A scandal to love's power, We ought not to misspend so much As one poor short-lived hour.

Yet think not, sweet, I'm weary grown, That I pretend such haste; Since none to surfeit e'er was known Before he had a taste: My infant love could humbly wait When, young, it scarce knew how To plead; but grown to man's estate, He is impatient now.

Charles Cotton [1630-1687]


Not, Celia, that I juster am Or better than the rest! For I would change each hour, like them, Were not my heart at rest.

But I am tied to very thee By every thought I have; Thy face I only care to see, Thy heart I only crave.

All that in woman is adored In thy dear self I find - For the whole sex can but afford The handsome and the kind.

Why then should I seek further store, And still make love anew? When change itself can give no more, 'Tis easy to be true!

Charles Sedley [1639-1701]


My dear mistress has a heart Soft as those kind looks she gave me; When with love's restless art, And her eyes, she did enslave me. But her constancy's so weak, She's so wild and apt to wander, That my jealous heart would break Should we live one day asunder.

Melting joys about her move, Killing pleasures, wounding blisses; She can dress her eyes in love, And her lips can arm with kisses. Angels listen when she speaks; She's my delight, all mankind's wonder; But my jealous heart would break Should we live one day asunder.

John Wilmot [1647-1680]


All my past life is mine no more; The flying hours are gone, Like transitory dreams given o'er, Whose images are kept in store By memory alone.

The time that is to come is not; How can it then be mine? The present moment's all my lot; And that, as fast as it is got, Phillis, is only thine.

Then talk not of inconstancy, False hearts, and broken vows; If I by miracle can be This live-long minute true to thee, 'Tis all that Heaven allows.

John Wilmot [1647-1680]


I cannot change as others do, Though you unjustly scorn; Since that poor swain that sighs for you For you alone was born. No, Phillis, no; your heart to move A surer way I'll try; And, to revenge my slighted love, Will still live on, will still live on and die.

When, killed with grief, Amyntas lies, And you to mind shall call The sighs that now unpitied rise, The tears that vainly fall - That welcome hour that ends this smart, Will then begin your pain; For such a faithful tender heart Can never break, can never break in vain.

John Wilmot [1647-1680]


Too late, alas! I must confess, You need not arts to move me; Such charms by nature you possess, 'Twere madness not to love ye.

Then spare a heart you may surprise, And give my tongue the glory To boast, though my unfaithful eyes Betray a tender story.

John Wilmot [1647-1680]


Come, Celia, let's agree at last To love and live in quiet; Let's tie the knot so very fast That time shall ne'er untie it. Love's dearest joys they never prove, Who free from quarrels live; 'Tis sure a god like part of love Each other to forgive.

When least I seemed concerned I took No pleasure, nor had rest; And when I feigned an angry look, Alas! I loved you best. Say but the same to me, you'll find How blest will be our fate; Sure to be grateful, to be kind, Can never be too late.

John Sheffield [1648-1721]


I did but look and love awhile, 'Twas but for one half-hour; Then to resist I had no will, And now I have no power.

To sigh and wish is all my ease; Sighs which do heat impart

The Home Book of Verse, Volume 2 - 30/175

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