But, if I seem to fall in war, T'excuse the murder you commit, As in thy heart t' acknowledge it: That's all I ask; which thou must give It is for thee; and would not live Sole prince of all the world beside. ESTRENNES. TO CALISTA. I reckon the first day I saw those eyes, The first day of my first new year: And knew why Heaven placed me here; Love is the soul of life, though that I know Not rational at least, until Beauty, with her diviner light, Illuminates the groping will, And shows us how to choose aright; And that's first proved by th' objects it refuses, And by being constant then to that it chooses. Days, weeks, months, years, and lustres take And can so little love assuage, That we (in truth) can hardly say, When we have lived at least an age, A long one, we have loved a day. This day to me, so slowly does time move, Seems but the noon unto my morning love. Love by swift time, which sickly passions dread, Is no more measured than 't is limitéd : That passion, where all others cease, And with the fuel lose the flame, Is evermore in its increase, And yet being love, is still the same; They err call liking love; true lovers know He never loved who does not always so. You, who my last love have, my first love had, To whom my all of love was, and is paid, Are only worthy to receive The richest new year's gift I have, Which each new year I will present anew, JOHN DRYDEN. 1631-1701. [“Miscellany Poems." (?) 1693.] SONG. FAIR, Sweet, and young, receive a prize As I from thousand beauties more Your face for conquest was designed, No graces can your form improve, SONG TO A FAIR YOUNG LADY, GOING OUT OF THE TOWN IN THE SPRING. Ask not the cause, why sullen Spring So long delays her flowers to bear; And winter storms invert the year. Chloris is gone, the cruel fair; She cast not back a pitying eye; To sigh, to languish, and to die: Great god of Love, why hast thou made A face that can all hearts command, That all religions can invade, And change the laws of every land? Where thou hadst placed such power before, Thou shouldst have made her mercy more. When Chloris to the temple comes, I only am by love designed JOHN NORRIS. 1657-1711. ["Poems and Miscellanies." (?) 1717.] SUPERSTITION. I CARE not, though it be By the preciser sort thought popery; For everything we do. Hear, then, my little saint! I'll pray to thee. If now thy happy mind, Amidst its various joys, can leisure find To attend to anything so low As what I say or do, Regard, and be what thou wast ever-kind. Let not the blessed above Engross thee quite, but sometimes hither rove; Fain would I thy sweet image see, And sit and talk with thee; Nor is it curiosity, but love. Ah! what delight 't would be, Wouldst thou sometimes, by stealth, converse with me. |