A river, ere it meet the sea, Unless it join and mix with thee: We know the flood runs still, though under ground. THE DISSEMBLER. UNHURT, untouch'd, did I complain, I thought, I'll swear, an handsome lye 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 understandst not raillery? Darts, and wounds, and flame, and heat, Truth gives a dull propriety to my style, In things where fancy much does reign, My lines of amorous desire I wrote to kindle and blow others' fire; THE INCONSTANT. I NEVER yet could see that face 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; And I'm so weak, the pistol need not be If tall, the name of proper slays; If black, what lover loves not night? The fat, like plenty, fills my heart; Nay, age itself does me to rage incline, Just half as large as Charity My richly-landed Love 's become; And, judg'd 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, My soul at first indeed did prove But my consum'd and wasted heart, THE CONSTANT. GREAT and wise conqueror, who, where'er Thou com'st, dost fortify, and settle there! Who canst defend as well as get, And never hadst one quarter beat-up yet; Had thy charming strength been less, 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; for what, alas! can be Added to that which hath infinity Both in extent and quality. HER NAME. WITH more than Jewish reverence as yet When will our love be nam'd, and we possess So bold as yet no verse of mine has been, Nor, till the happy nuptial Muse be seen, Rest, mighty name! till then; for thou must be |