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Let Nature, if she please, disperse My atoms over all the universe;

At the last they easily shall

Themselves know, and together call ; For thy love, like a mark, is stamp'd on all.

LOVE AND LIFE.

Now, sure, within this twelvemonth past, I'ave lov'd at least some twenty years or more: Th' account of Love runs much more fast Than that with which our life does score: So, though my life be short, yet I may prove The great Methusalem of Love.

Not that Love's hours or minutes are
Shorter than those our being's measur❜d by;
But they're more close compacted far,
And so in lesser room do lie:

Thin airy things extend themselves in space,
Things solid take up little place.

Yet Love, alas! and Life, in me,
Are not two several things, but purely one;
At once how can there in it be

A double, different motion?

O yes, there may; for so the self-same sun
At once does slow and swiftly run :

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Swiftly his daily journey he goes,

But treads his annual with a statelier pace;
And does three hundred rounds enclose
Within one yearly circle's space;

At once, with double course in the same sphere,
He runs the day, and walks the year.

When Soul does to myself refer, "Tis then my life, and does but slowly move; But when it does relate to her,

It swiftly flies, and then is Love.

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divided right

"Twixt hope and fear-my day and night.

THE BARGAIN.

TAKE heed, take heed, thou lovely maid,
Nor be by glittering ills betray'd;
Thyself for money! oh, let no man know
The price of beauty fall'n so low!

What dangers ought'st thou not to dread, When Love, that 's blind, is by blind Fortune led?

The foolish Indian, that sells

His precious gold for beads and bells, Does a more wise and gainful traffick hold Than thou, who sell'st thyself for gold.

What gains in such a bargain are ? He'll in thy mines dig better treasures far.

Can gold, alas! with thee compare?

The sun, that makes it, 's not so fair; The sun, which can nor make nor ever see A thing so beautiful as thee,

In all the journeys he does pass,

Though the sea serv'd him for a looking-glass.

Bold was the wretch that cheapen'd thee; Since Magus, none so bold as he: Thou'rt so divine a thing, that thee to buy Is to be counted simony;

Too dear he'll find his sordid price Has forfeited that and the Benefice.

If it be lawful thee to buy,

There's none can pay that rate but I;
Nothing on earth a fitting price can be,

But what on earth's most like to thee;
And that my heart does only bear;
For there thyself, thy very self is there.

So much thyself does in me live,
That, when it for thyself I give,

"T is but to change that piece of gold for this, Whose stamp and value equal is ;

And, that full weight too may be had,

My soul and body, two grains more, I'll add.

THE LONG LIFE.

LOVE from Time's wings hath stol'n the feathers,

sure

He has, and put them to his own; For hours of late as long as days endure, And very minutes hours are grown.

The various motions of the turning year
Belong not now at all to me:
Each summer's night does Lucy's now appear,
Each winter's day St. Barnaby.

How long a space since first I lov'd it is!
To look into a glass I fear;
And am surpris'd with wonder when I miss
Grey-hairs and wrinkles there.

Th' old Patriarchs' age, and not their happiness

too,

Why does hard Fate to us restore ? Why does Love's fire thus to mankind renew What the Flood wash'd away before?

Sure those are happy people that complain
O' th' shortness of the days of man :

Contract mine, Heaven! and bring them back again
To th' ordinary span.

If when your gift, long life, I disapprove,
I too ingrateful seem to be;

Punish me justly, Heaven; make her to love,
And then 't will be too short for me.

COUNSEL.

GENTLY, ah gently, madam, touch

The wound which you yourself have made; That pain must needs be very much,

Which makes me of your hand afraid.

Cordials of pity give me now,

For I too weak for purgings grow.

Do but a while with patience stay

(For counsel yet will do no good) Till time, and rest, and Heaven, allay

The violent burnings of my blood;
For what effect from this can flow,
To chide men-drunk, for being so?

Perhaps the physick 's good you give,

But ne'er to me can useful prove;
Medicines may cure, but not revive;
And I'm not sick, but dead in love.
In Love's hell, not his world, am I;
At once I live, am dead, and die.

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