Shall the' Hellespont our loves divide?
No, not the' Atlantic ocean's boundless tide.

Such seas betwixt us easily conquer'd are;
But, gentle maid! do not deny

To let thy beams shine on me from afar;
And still the taper let me espy:

For, when thy light goes out, I sink and die.

SILENCE.

CURSE on this tongue, that has my heart betray'd,
And his great secret open laid!
For, of all persons, chiefly she
Should not the ills I suffer know;

Since 'tis a thing might dangerous grow,

Only in her to pity me:

Since 'tis for me to lose my life more fit,
Than 'tis for her to save and ransom it.

Ah! never more shall thy unwilling ear
My helpless story hear;

Discourse and talk awake does keep
The rude unquiet pain

That in my breast does reign;

Silence perhaps may make it sleep: I'll bind that sore up I did ill reveal;

The wound, if once it close, may chance to heal.

No, 'twill ne'er heal; my love will never die,
Though it should speechless lie.

A river, ere it meet the sea,
As well might stay its source,
As my love can his course,

Unless it join and mix with thee:

If any

end or stop of it be found,

We know the flood runs still, though under ground.

THE DISSEMBLER.

UNHURT, untouch'd, did I complain, And terrify'd all others with the pain: But now I feel the mighty evil;

Ah! there's no fooling with the devil!

So, wanton men, whilst others they would fright,
Themselves have met a real sprite.

I thought, I'll swear, an handsome lie
Had been no sin at all in poetry;
But now I suffer an arrest,

For words were spoke by me in jest.
Dull, sottish God of love! and can it be
Thou understand'st not raillery?

Darts, and wounds, and flame, and heat,
I named but for the rhyme, or the conceit;
Nor meant my verse should raised be
To this sad fame of prophecy :
Truth gives a dull propriety to my style,
And all the metaphors does spoil.

In things where fancy much does reign,
'Tis dangerous too cunningly to feign;
The play at last a truth does grow,
And Custom into Nature go;
By this cursed art of begging I became
Lame with counterfeiting lame.

My lines of amorous desire

I wrote to kindle and blow others' fire;
And 'twas a barbarous delight
My fancy promised from the sight:
But now, my Love, the mighty Phalaris, I
My burning Bull the first do try.

THE INCONSTANT.

I NEVER yet could see that face
Which had no dart for me;
From fifteen years, to fifty's space,
They all victorious be.

Love, thou'rt a devil, if I may call thee one;
For sure in me thy name is Legion.

Colour, or shape, good limbs, or face,
Goodness, or wit, in all I find;
In motion or in speech a grace;

If all fail, yet 'tis woman-kind;

And I'm so weak, the pistol need not be
Double or treble charged to murder me.
If tall, the name of proper slays;
If fair, she's pleasant as the light;
If low, her prettiness does please;

If black, what lover loves not night?
If yellow-hair'd, I love, lest it should be
The' excuse to others for not loving me.

The fat, like plenty, fills my heart; The lean, with love, makes me too so: If straight, her body's Cupid's dart To me; if crooked, 'tis his bow: Nay, age itself does me to rage incline, And strength to women gives, as well as wine.

Just half as large as Charity

My richly-landed Love's become; And, judged aright, is Constancy,

Though it take up a larger room:

Him, who loves always one, why should they call More constant than the man loves always all?

Thus with unwearied wings I flee

Through all love's gardens and his fields; And, like the wise, industrious bee,

No weed but honey to me yields! Honey still spent this diligence still supplies, Though I return not home with laden thighs.

My soul at first indeed did prove

Of pretty strength against a dart,
Till I this habit got of love;

But my consumed and wasted heart,
Once burnt to tinder with a strong desire,
Since that, by every spark is set on fire.

THE CONSTANT.

GREAT and wise conqueror, who, where'er Thou comest, dost fortify, and settle there! Who canst defend as well as get,

And never hadst one quarter beat up yet;
Now thou art in, thou ne'er wilt part
With one inch of my vanquish'd heart;
For, since thou took'st it by assault from me,
"Tis garrison'd so strong with thoughts of thee,
It fears no beauteous enemy.

Had thy charming strength been less,
I 'ad served ere this an hundred mistresses:
I'm better thus, nor would compound
To leave my prison to be a vagabond:
A prison in which I still would be,
Though every door stood ope to me.

In spite both of thy coldness and thy pride,
All love is marriage on thy lover's side,
For only death can them divide.

Close, narrow chain, yet soft and kind

As that which spirits above to good does bind, Gentle and sweet Necessity,

Which does not force, but guide, our liberty! Your love on me were spent in vain,

Since my

love still could but remain Just as it is; but what, alas! can be Added to that which hath infinity Both in extent and quality.

HER NAME.

WITH more than Jewish reverence as yet
Do I the sacred name conceal;

When, ye kind stars, ah when will it be fit
This gentle mystery to reveal?

When will our love be named, and we possess
That christening as a badge of happiness.

So bold as yet no verse of mine has been,
To wear that gem on any line;

Nor, till the happy nuptial Muse be seen,
Shall any stanza with it shine,

Rest, mighty name! till then; for thou must be
Laid down by her, ere taken up by me.

Then all the fields and woods shall with it ring;
Then Echo's burthen it shall be;

Then all the birds in several notes shall sing,
And all the rivers murmur, thee;

Then every wind the sound shall upwards bear,
And softly whisper 't to some angel's ear.