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Jointure, portion, gold, estate,
Houses, household-stuff, or land

(The low conveniencies of Fate),
Are Greek no lovers understand.

Believe me, beauteous one ! when love
Enters into a breast,

The two first things it does remove
Are friends and interest.

Passion’s half blind, nor can endure
The careful, scrupulous eyes;

Or else I could not love, I’m sure,
One who in love were wise,

Men in such tempests tost about,
Will, without grief or pain,

Cast all their goods and riches out,
Themselves their port to gain.

As well might martyrs, who do choose
That sacred death to take, .

Mourn for the clothes which they must lose,
When they're bound naked to the stake,


THY Maid! ah! find some nobler theme
Whereon thy doubts to place;

Nor by a low suspect blaspheme
The glories of thy face.

Alas! she makes thee shine so fair,
So exquisitely bright,

That her dim lamp must disappear
Before thy potent light.

Three hours each morn in dressing thee
Maliciously are spent;

And make that beauty tyranny,
That's else a civil government.

Th'adorning thee with so much art
Is but a barbarous skill ;

"Tis like the poisoning of a dart
Too apt before to kill.

The ministering angels none can see;
'T is not their beauty' or face,
For which by men they worshipp'd be;
But their high office and their place,
Thou art my Goddess, my Saint she ;
I pray to her, only to pray to thee.


AH! what advice can I receive :
No, satisfy me first;

For who would physick-potions give
To one that dies with thirst

A little puff of breath, we find,
Small fires can quench and kill;

But, when they’re great, the adverse wind
Does make them greater still.

Now whilst you speak, it moves me much,
But straight I'm just the same;

Alas! th’ effect must needs be such
Of cutting through a flame.


COME, doctor: use thy roughest art,
Thou canst not cruel prove;

Cut, burn, and torture, every part,
To heal me of my love.

There is no danger, if the pain
Should me to a fever bring;

Compar'd with heats I now sustain,
A fever is so cool a thing
(Like drink which feverish men desire)

That I should hope’t would almost quench my fire,


ASK me not what my love shall do or be
(Love, which is soul to body, and soul of me!)
When I am separated from thee;
Alas! I might as easily show,
What after death the soul will do;
"T will last, I'm sure, and that is all we know

The thing call'd soul will never stir nor move
But all that while a lifeless carcase prove;
For’t is the body of my love:
Not that my love will fly away,
But still continue; as, they say,
Sad troubled ghosts about their graves do stray.



I CHOSE the flourishingst tree in all the park,
With freshest boughs and fairest head;

I cut my love into his gentle bark,
And in three days, behold !'t is dead:

My very written flames so violent be,
They’ve burnt and wither'd-up the tree.

How should I live myself, whose heart is found
Deeply graven every-where

With the large history of many a wound,
Larger than thy trunk can bear

With art as strange as Homer in the nut,
Love in my heart as volumes put.

What a few words from thy rich stock did take
The leaves and beauties all,

As a strong poison with one drop does make
The nails and hairs to fall :

Love (I see now) a kind of witchcraft is,
Or characters could ne'er do this.

Pardon, ye birds and nymphs, who lov'd this shade;
And pardon me, thou gentle tree;
I thought her name would thee have happy made,
And blessed omens hop'd from thee:

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