The profanation of a kiss ;
Health's his disease; he's never well

But when his paleness shames her rose ;
His faith's a rock-built citadel,

Its sign a flag that each way blows; His o'erfed fancy frets and fumes ;

And Love, in him, is fierce, like Hate, And ruffles his ambrosial plumes

Against the bars of time and fate.

COVENTRY PATMORE.

CLXI

HEAR, ye ladies that despise,

What the mighty Love has done; Fear examples, and be wise:

Fair Calisto was a nun; Leda, sailing on the stream

To deceive the hopes of man, Love accounting but a dream, Doted on a silver swan;

Danæ, in a brazen tower,

Where no love was, loved a shower.

Hear, ye ladies that are coy,

What the mighty Love can do ;

Fear the fierceness of the boy :

The chaste moon he makes to woo;

Vesta, kindling holy fires,

Circled round about with spies, Never dreaming loose desires,

Doting at the altar dies: Ilion, in a short hour, higher

He can build, and once more fire.

JOHN FLETCHer.

THE WINGS OF EROS

Love, like a bird, hath perched upon a spray
For thee and me to hearken what he sings.
Contented, he forgets to fly away,-

But hush! . . . remind not Eros of his wings.

CLXII

AND wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay! say nay! for shame,
To save thee from the blame
Of all my grief and grame.
And wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay! say nay!

And wilt thou leave me thus,
That have loved thee so long
In wealth and woe among:
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus ?
Say nay! say nay!

And wilt thou leave me thus,

That have given thee my heart

Never for to depart

Neither for pain nor smart :

And wilt thou leave me thus?

Say nay! say nay!

And wilt thou leave me thus,

And have no more pity

Of him that loveth thee?

Alas! thy cruelty!

And wilt thou leave me thus?

Say nay! say nay!

SIR THOMAS WYATT.

CLXIII

THE ADIEU

(SONG FROM Rokeby)

"A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine!

To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine!
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
A feather of the blue,

A doublet of the Lincoln green,—

No more of me you knew,

My love!

No more of me you knew.

"This morn is merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain ;

But she shall bloom in winter snow

Ere we two meet again.'

He turned his charger as he spake,
Upon the river shore,

He gave his bridle reins a shake,

"Adieu for evermore,

Said,

My love!

And adieu for evermore.' ""

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

CLXIV

DISDAIN RETURNED

HE that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from starlike eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires;