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- The Home Book of Verse, Volume 2 - 4/175 -

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.



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]


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 idle pleasure. When first her gentle bosom knows Love's flame, it wanders never; Deep in her heart the passion glows, She loves, and loves for ever.

Oh! say not woman's false as fair, That, like the bee, she ranges, Still seeking flowers more sweet and rare, As fickle fancy changes. Ah no! the love that first can warm Will leave her bosom never; No second passion e'er can charm, She loves, and loves for ever.

Isaac Pocock [1782-1835]

"IN THE DAYS OF OLD" From "Crotchet Castle"

In the days of old Lovers felt true passion, Deeming years of sorrow By a smile repaid: Now the charms of gold, Spells of pride and fashion, Bid them say Good-morrow To the best-loved Maid.

Through the forests wild, O'er the mountains lonely, They were never weary Honor to pursue: If the damsel smiled Once in seven years only, All their wanderings dreary Ample guerdon knew.

Now one day's caprice Weighs down years of smiling,

Youthful hearts are rovers, Love is bought and sold. Fortune's gifts may cease, Love is less beguiling: Wiser were the lovers In the days of old.

Thomas Love Peacock [1785-1866]


How delicious is the winning Of a kiss at Love's beginning, When two mutual hearts are sighing For the knot there's no untying!

Yet remember, 'midst your wooing, Love has bliss, but Love has ruing; Other smiles may make you fickle, Tears for other charms may trickle.

Love he comes, and Love he tarries, Just as fate or fancy carries; Longest stays, when sorest chidden; Laughs and flies, when pressed and bidden.

Bind the sea to slumber stilly, Bind its odor to the lily, Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver, Then bind Love to last forever!

Love's a fire that needs renewal Of fresh beauty for its fuel: Love's wing moults when caged and captured, Only free, he soars enraptured.

Can you keep the bee from ranging, Or the ringdove's neck from changing? No! nor fettered Love from dying In the knot there's no untying.

Thomas Campbell [1777-1844]


Could Love for ever Run like a river, And Time's endeavor Be tried in vain - No other pleasure With this could measure, And like a treasure We'd hug the chain. But since our sighing Ends not in dying, And, formed for flying, Love plumes his wing; Then for this reason Let's love a season; But let that season Be only Spring.

When lovers parted Feel broken-hearted, And, all hopes thwarted, Expect to die; A few years older, Ah! how much colder They might behold her For whom they sigh! When linked together, In every weather, They pluck Love's feather From out his wing - He'll stay for ever, But sadly shiver Without his plumage, When past the Spring.

Like Chiefs of Faction, His life is action - A formal paction That curbs his reign, Obscures his glory, Despot no more, he Such territory Quits with disdain. Still, still advancing, With banners glancing, His power enhancing, He must move on - Repose but cloys him,

The Home Book of Verse, Volume 2 - 4/175

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