Love, sole lord and monarch of itself,
Allows no ties, no dictates but its own.
To that mysterious arbitrary power,
Reason points out and duty pleads in vain.
Motley's Imperial Captives.
What is this subtle searching flame of love,
That penetrates the tender breast unmask'd,
And blasts the heart of adamant within;
As the quick light'ning oft calcines the blade
Of temper'd steel, and leaves the sheath unhurt.
Darcy's Love and Ambition.

Love, like a wren upon the eagle's wing,
Shall perch superior on ambition's plume,
And mock the lordly passion in its flight.

Darcy's Love and Ambition.
Is passion to be learn'd then? would'st thou make
A science of affection, guide the heart,
And teach it where to fix?

Brooke's Earl of Warwick. Love is a passion whose effects are various, It ever brings some change upon the soul, Some virtue, or some vice, till then unknown, Degrados the hero, and makes cowards valiant.

Love why do we one passion call,

When 't is a compound of them all?

Where hot and cold, where sharp and sweet, In all their equipages meet;

Where pleasures mix'd with pains appear, Sorrow with joy, and hope with fear.

Swift's Cadenus and Vanessa,

There are in love, the extremes of touch'd desire;
The noblest brightness! or the coarsest fire!
In vulgar bosoms vulgar wishes move;
Nature guides choice, and as men think, they

love.

In the loose passion men profane the name, Mistake the purpose, and pollute the flame: In nobler bosoms friendship's form it takes, And sex alone the lovely difference makes.

Aaron Hill.

Almighty love! what wonders are not thine!
Soon as thy influence breathes upon the soul,
By thee, the haughty bend the suppliant knee,
By thee, the hand of avarice is opened
Into profusion; by thy power the heart
Of cruelty is melted into softness;

The rude grow tender, and the fearful bold.
Patterson's Arminius.
Keen are the pangs

Of hapless love, and passion unapprov'd:
But where consenting wishes meet, and vows,
Reciprocally breath'd, confirm the tie;
Joy rolls on joy, an inexhausting stream!
And virtue crowns the sacred scene.

Smollett's Regicide.

As love can exquisitely bless,
Love only feels the marvellous of pain;
Opens new veins of torture in the soul,
And wakes the nerve where agonies are born.
Smollett's Regicide.

Adieu, for him,
The dull engagements of the bustling world!
Adieu the sick impertinence of praise!
And hope, and action! for with her alone,
By streams and shades, to steal these sighing hours,
Is all he asks, and all that fate can give.

Akenside's Pleasures of Imagination.

Now love is dwindled to intrigue,
And marriage grown a money-league.

Swift's Cadenus and Vanessa.

Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose,
That well-known name awakens all my woes.
Oh, name for ever sad! for ever dear!
Still breath'd in sighs, still usher'd with a tear!
Pope's Eloisa.

What scenes appear where'er I turn my view!
The dear ideas, where'er I fly, pursue,
Rise in the grave, before the altar rise,
Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes.

I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee,
Thy image steals between my God and me;
Thy voice I seem in every hymn to hear,
With every bead I drop too soft a tear.
When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll,
And swelling organs lift the rising soul,
One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight,
Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight:
In seas of flame my plunging soul is drown'd,
While altars blaze, and angels tremble round.
Pope's Eloisa.

O death, all eloquent! you only prove
What dust we doat on, when 't is man we love.
Pope's Eloisa

Desire that with perpetual current flows;
Th' impatient wish that never feels repose;
The fluctuating pangs of hope and fear;
Joy distant still, and sorrow ever near!
Falconer's Shipwrec

Tir'd with vain joys and false alarms,
With mental and corporeal strife,
Snatch me, my Stella, to thy arms,
And screen me from the ills of life.

Dr. Johnson.
'Tis love, combin'd with guilt alone, that melts
The soften'd soul to cowardice and sloth;
But virtuous passion prompts the great resolve,
And fans the slumbering spark of heavenly fire.
Dr. Johnson's Irene.
Know'st thou not yet, when love invades the soul,
That all her faculties receive his chains;
That reason gives her sceptre to his hand,
Or only struggles to be more enslav'd?

Dr. Johnson's Irene. Why, when the balm of sleep descends on man, Do gay delusions, wand'ring o'er the brain, Soothe the delighted soul with empty bliss? To want give affluence, and to slavery freedom? Such are love's joys, the lenitives of life, A fancy'd treasure, and a waking dream.

Dr. Johnson's Irene.

We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

Burns.

Fain would I speak the thoughts I bear to thee, But they do choke and flutter in my throat, And make me like a child.

Joanna Baillie's Ethwald,
True love's the gift which God has given
To man alone beneath the heaven.
It is not fantasy's hot fire,
Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly;
It liveth not in fierce desire,
With dead desire it doth not die;
It is the secret sympathy,

The silver link, the silken tie,
Which heart to heart, and mind to mind,
In body and in soul can bind.

Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel

In peace, love tunes the shepherd's reed;
In war,
he mounts the warrior's steed;
In halls, in gay attire is scen;

In hamlets, dances on the green;
Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,
And men below and saints above;
For love is heaven, and heaven is love.
Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel

Oh, why should man's success remove
The very charms that make his love'
Scott's Marmion.
Oh, blame her not! when zephyrs wake,
The aspen's trembling leaves must shake;
When beams the sun through April's shower,
It needs must bloom, the violet flower;
And love, howe'er the maiden strive,
Must with reviving hope revive.

Scott's Lord of the Isles.

Who trusts the dear deceiver
Will surely be undone !

When beauty triumphs, ah beware!
Her smile is hope! her frown despair!

Montgomery's Wanderer of Switzerland.

Did woman's charm thy youth beguile,
And did the fair one faithless prove?
Hath she betray'd thee with her smile,
And sold thy love?

Live! 't was a false bewildering fire:
Too often love's insidious dart
Thrills the fond soul with wild desire,
But kills the heart.

Thou yet shalt know, how sweet, how dear,
To gaze on listening beauty's eye!

Lightly thou say'st that woman's love is false, The thought is falser far

For some of them are true as martyrs' legends,
As full of suffering faith, of burning love,
Of high devotion-worthier of heaven than earth,
O, I do know a tale!

Maturin's Bertram.

Why dost thou wander by this mournful light,
Feeding sick fancy with the thought that poisons
Maturin's Bertram.

Nay, if she love me not, I care not for her:
Shall I look pale because the maiden blooms?
Or sigh because she smiles on others?
Not I, by heaven! I hold my peace too dear,
To let it, like the plume upon her cap,
Shake at each nod that her caprice shall dictate.
Old Play. Antiquary

Love's holy flame for ever burneth;
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth,
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times opprest.
It here is tried, and purified,
Then hath in heaven its perfect rest:
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest time of love is there

Dr. Wolcot's Peter Pindar.
Ye finer souls,
Form'd to soft luxury, and prompt to thrill
With all the tumults, all the joys and pains,
That beauty gives; with caution and reserve
Indulge the sweet destroyer of repose,

Nor court too much the queen of charming cares
For while the cherish'd poison in your breast
Ferments, and maddens; sick with jealousy,
Absence, distrust, or even with anxious joy,
The wholesome appetites and powers of life
Dissolve in languor. The coy stomach loathes
The genial board; your cheerful days are gone;
The generous bloom that flush'd your checks 10

fled.

To sighs devoted, and to tender pains.
Pensive you sit, or solitary stray,
And waste your youth in nursing.

Armstrong's Art of Prese ving Health

Sweet heaven, from such intoxicating charms,
Defend all worthy breasts! not that I deem
Love always dangerous, always to be shunn'd.
Love well repaid, and not too weakly sunk
In wanton and unmanly tenderness,
Adds bloom to health; o'er ev'ry virtue sheds
A gay, humane, a sweet, and generous grace,
And brightens all the ornaments of man.
But fruitless, hopeless, disappointed, rack'd
With jealousy, fatigu'd with hope and fear,
Too serious, or too languishingly fond,
Unnerves the body, and unmans the soul.

Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health.

The world! ah, Fanny! love must shun
The path where many rove;

One bosom to recline upon,

Oh! best of delights, as it everywhere is,
To be near the lov'd one,-what a rapture is his,
Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly may
glide

O'er the lake of Cashmere, with that one by his side!

If woman can make the worst wilderness dear,
Think, think what a heav'n she must make of
Cashmere.
Moore's Lalla Rookh.

Alas-how light a cause may move
Dissension between hearts that love;
Hearts that the world in vain had tried,
And sorrow but more closely tied;

That stood the storm, when waves were rough,
Yet in a sunny hour fall off,

Like ships that have gone down at sea,
When heaven was all tranquillity.

Moore's Lalla Rookh.

Fly to the desert, fly with me,

Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But oh! the choice what heart can doubt
Of tents with love, or thrones without?
Moore's Lalla Rookh.
She loves-but knows not whom she loves,
Nor what his race, nor whence he came ;-
Like one who meets, in Indian groves,
Some beautcous bird without a name,
Brought by the last ambrosial breeze,
From isles in th' undiscover'd scas,
To show his plumage for a day
To wondering eyes, and wing away!

Moore's Lalla Rookh.

Moore.

Or could this heart e'en now forget
How link'd, how bless'd we might have been,
Had fate not frown'd so dark between!

Moore's Lalla Rookh.

Moore.

There was a time when love was sweet;
Dear Nea! had I known thee then,
Our souls had not been slow to meet!
But, oh! this weary heart hath run
So many a time the rounds of pain,
Not e'en for thee, thou lovely one!
Would I endure such pangs again.

Oh! thou shalt be all else to me,
That heart can feel or tongue can feign;
I'll praise, admire, and worship thee,
But must not, dare not, love again.

In pleasure's dream or sorrow's hour,
In crowded hall or lonely bower,

The business of my soul shall be,

For ever to remember thee!

Moore.

Moore.

Moore.

Moore.

Oh! never may suspicion's gloomy sky
Chill the sweet glow of fondly trusting love!
Nor ever may he feel the scowling eye
Of dark distrust his confidence reprove!
In pleasing error may I rather rove,
With blind reliance on the hand so dear,
Than let cold prudence from my eyes remove
Those sweet delusions, where no doubt, nor fear,
Nor foul disloyalty, nor cruel change appear.
Mrs. Tighe's Psyche.

Oh, who art thou who darest of love complain?
He is a gentle spirit and injures none !
His foes are ours; from them the bitter pain,
The keen, deep anguish, the heart-rending groan,
Which in his milder reign are never known.
His tears are softer than the April showers,
White-handed innocence supports his throne:
His sighs are sweet as breath of earliest flowers,
Affection guides his steps, and peace protects his
bowers.
Mrs. Tighe's Psyche.

When pleasure sparkles in the cup of youth,
And the gay hours on downy wing advance;
Oh! then, 't is sweet to hear the lip of truth
Breathe the soft vows of love, sweet to entrance
The raptur'd soul by intermingling glance
Of mutual bliss; sweet amid roseate bowers,
Led by the hand of love, to weave the dance,
Or unmolested crop life's fairy flowers,
Or bask in joy's bright sun through calm un-
clouded hours. Mrs. Tighe's Psyche
When vex'd by cares and harass'd by distress,
The storms of fortune chill thy soul with dread,
Let love, consoling love! still sweetly bless,
And his assuasive balm benignly shed:
This downy plumage o'er thy pillow spread,
Shall lull thy weeping sorrows to repose:
To love the tender heart hath ever fled,

As on its mother's breast the infant throws
Its sobbing face, and there in sleep forgets its woer.
Mrs. Tighe's Psych