SIR ROBERT AYTON. 1570-1638. ON LOVE. THERE is no worldly pleasure here below, The sweetest folly in the world is love: As if a man were born to fast and pray. No, that is not the humour I approve, As either yielding pleasure, or promotion; I like a mild and lukewarm zeal in love, Although I do not like it in devotion: For it has no coherence with my creed, To think that lovers die, as they pretend: If all that say they die, had died indeed, Sure long ere now the world had had an end. Besides, we need not love but if we please, No destiny can force men's disposition; And how can any die of that disease, Whereof himself may be his own physician? But some seem so distracted of their wit, That I would think it but a venial sin To take some of those innocents that sit In Bedlam out, and put some lovers in. Yet some men, rather than incur the slander I'll neither drown, nor hang myself for love. Methinks a wise man's actions should be such As always yields to reason's best advice; Now for to love too little, or too much, Are both extremes, and all extremes are vice. Yet have I been a lover by report, Yea, I have died for love, as others do; But, praised be God, it was in such a sort, That I revived within an hour or two. Thus have I lived, thus have I loved, till now, And find no reason to repent me yet; And whosoever otherways will do, His courage is as little as his wit. ON A WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY. I loved thee once, I'll love no more, He that can love, unloved again, Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, And then how could I but disdain When new desires had conquered thee, It had been lethargy in me, No constancy to love thee still : And prostitute affection so; Since we are taught no prayers to say Yet do thou glory in thy choice, Thy choice of his good fortune boast; I'll neither grieve, nor yet rejoice, SONG. I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair, And I might have gone near to love thee; Had I not found the slightest prayer That lips could speak had power to move thee: But I can let thee now alone, As worthy to be loved by none. I do confess thou 'rt sweet, yet find Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, The morning rose, that untouched stands, Armed with her briers, how sweetly smells! But plucked and strained through ruder hands, But scent and beauty both are gone, Such fate, ere long, will thee betide, When thou hast handled been awhile, And I will sigh, while some will smile, SONG. What means this strangeness now of late, This distance may consist with state, 'Tis either cunning or distrust, For if you mean to draw me on, If kindness cross your wished content, I'll give you all the love that's spent, THOMAS HEYWOOD. 15--16-. ["Pleasant Dalogues and Dramas." 1607.] SONG. PACK clouds away, and welcome day, To give my love good morrow, Wake from thy nest, Robin red-breast, And from each bill let music shrill Give my fair love good morrow. |