Will reward thee for thy pain; Boldly light upon her lip, There suck odours, and thence skip To her bosom; lastly fall Down, and wander over all; Range about those ivory hills, As thou return'st, change by thy power For so rich a booty made, Do but this, and I am paid. Thou can'st, with thy powerful blast, Heat apace, and cool as fast; Thou canst kindle hidden flame, And again destroy the same; Then for pity, either stir Up the fire of love in her, That alike both flames may shine, Or else quite extinguish mine. SONG. Ask me no more where Jove bestows, Ask me no more whither doth stray Ask me no more whither doth haste Ask me no more where those stars light, That downwards fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixéd become as in their sphere. Ask me no more if east or west JAMES GRAHAME, MARQUIS OF MONTROSE. 1612-1650. MY DEAR AND ONLY LOVE, I PRAY. PART FIRST. My dear and only love I pray Which virtuous souls abhor, Like Alexander I will reign, My thoughts shall evermore disdain He either fears his fate too much, But I must rule and govern still, But 'gainst my battery if I find Or in the empire of thy heart, And dares to vie with me; Or if committees thou erect, And goes on such a score, But if thou wilt be constant then, I'll crown and deck thee all with bays, And love thee evermore. PART SECOND. [The authenticity of the second part of this beautiful poem has been doubted. I have omitted one stanza, the text of which seems to me hopelessly corrupt.] My dear and only love take heed, Lest thou thyself expose, And let all longing lovers feed Upon such looks as those. A marble wall then build about, But if thou let thy heart fly out, Let not their oaths, like vollies shot, Make any breach at all; Nor smoothness of their language plot Which way to scale the wall; Nor balls of wild-fire love consume The shrine which I adore; For if such smoke about thee fume, I think thy virtues be too strong But if thou turn a common-wealth For if by fraud, or by consent, Nor march by tuck of drum; I'll do with thee as Nero did, Not only all relief forbid, But to a hill retire, And scorn to shed a tear to see Thy spirit grown so poor; But smiling, sing until I die, I'll never love thee more. Yet for the love I bare thee once, Lest that thy name should die, |