XCII

TO ALTHEA

FROM PRISON

WHEN love with unconfined wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair
And fettered to her eye,
The gods that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round, With no allaying Thames,

Our careless heads with roses bound, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free, Fishes that tipple in the deep

Know no such liberty.

When, like committed linnets, I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my king;

When I shall voice aloud, how good
He is, how great should be,
Enlarged winds that curl the flood
Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage.
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone that soar above
Enjoy such liberty.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

XCIII

SUCH ones ill judge of Love that cannot love,
Ne in their frozen hearts feel kindly flame :
For-thy they ought not thing unknown reprove,
Ne natural affection faultless blame,

For fault of few that have abused the same;

For it of honour and all virtue is

The root, and brings forth glorious flowers of fame, That crown true lovers with immortal bliss,

The meed of them that love, and do not live amiss. EDMUND Spenser.

XCIV

BECAUSE I breathe not love to every one,
Nor do not use set colours for to wear,
Nor nourish special locks of vowed hair,
Nor give each speech a full point of a groan,

The courtly nymphs, acquainted with the moan Of them which in their lips Love's standard bear,— "What, he !" they say of me, 66 now I dare swear

He cannot love; no, no, let him alone."

And think so still, so Stella know my mind;
Profess indeed I do not Cupid's art;

But you, fair maids, at length this true shall find,
That his right badge is but worn in the heart :
Dumb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers prove;
They love indeed who quake to say they love.
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

XCV

SEEK not the tree of silkiest bark

And balmiest bud,

To carve her name while yet 'tis dark

Upon the wood.

The world is full of noble tasks,

And wreaths hard won :

Each work demands strong hearts, strong hands,

Till day is done.

Sing not that violet-veinèd skin,

That cheek's pale roses,

The lily of that form wherein

Her soul reposes:

Forth to the fight, true man, true knight ;

The clash of arms

Shall more prevail than whispered tale

To win her charms.

The warrior for the True, the Right,
Fights in Love's name :

K

130

The love that lures thee from that fight
Lures thee to shame :

The love which lifts the heart, yet leaves

The spirit free,

That love, or none, is fit for one

Man-shaped, like thee.

AUBREY DE Vere.

XCVI

TO ANTHEA, WHO MAY COMMAND HIM
ANYTHING

BID me to live, and I will live
Thy Protestant to be:

Or bid me love, and I will give
A loving heart to thee.

A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
A heart as sound and free,
As in the whole world thou canst find,
That heart I'll give to thee.

Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,

To honour thy decree:

Or bid it languish quite away,

And 't shalt do so for thee.

Bid me to weep, and I will weep,
While I have eyes to see:
And having none, yet I will keep
A heart to weep for thee.

Bid me despair, and I'll despair,
Under that cypress tree :
Or bid me die, and I will dare
Ev'n death, to die for thee.

Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
The very eyes of me :

And hast command of every part,

To live and die for thee.

ROBERT HERRICK.

XCVII

FORGET not yet the tried intent
Of such a truth as I have meant ;
My great travail so gladly spent,
Forget not yet!

Forget not yet when first began
The weary life ye know, since whan
The suit, the service none tell can;
Forget not yet!

Forget not yet the great assays,
The cruel wrong, the scornful ways,
The painful patience in delays,
Forget not yet!

Forget not! O, forget not this,
How long ago hath been, and is
The mind that never meant amiss-
Forget not yet!

Forget not then thine own approved
The which so long hath thee so loved,
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved—
Forget not this!

SIR THOMAS WYATT.