JAMES GRAHAME,

MARQUIS OF MONTROSE.

1612-1650.

MY DEAR AND ONLY LOVE, I PRAY.

PART FIRST.

My dear and only love I pray
This noble world of thee,
Be governed by no other sway
But purest monarchy.
For if confusion have a part,

Which virtuous souls abhor,
And hold a synod in thy heart,
I'll never love thee more.

Like Alexander I will reign,

And I will reign alone;

My thoughts shall evermore disdain
A rival on my throne.

He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,

That puts it not unto the touch,
To win or lose it all.

But I must rule and govern still,
And always give the law,
And have each subject at my will,
And all to stand in awe.

But 'gainst my battery if I find
Thou shun'st the prize so sore,
As that thou set'st me up a blind,
I'll never love thee more.

Or in the empire of thy heart,
Where I should solely be,
Another do pretend a part,

And dares to vie with me;

Or if committees thou erect,

And goes on such a score,
I'll sing and laugh at thy neglect,
And never love thee more.

But if thou wilt be constant then,
And faithful of thy word,
I'll make thee glorious by my pen,
And famous by my sword.
I'll serve thee in such noble ways
Was never heard before;

I'll crown and deck thee all with bays,

And love thee evermore.

PART SECOND.

[The authenticity of the second part of this beautiful poem has been doubted. I have omitted one stanza, the text of which seems to me hopelessly corrupt.]

My dear and only love take heed,

Lest thou thyself expose,

And let all longing lovers feed

Upon such looks as those.

A marble wall then build about,
Beset without a door;

But if thou let thy heart fly out,
I'll never love thee more.

Let not their oaths, like vollies shot, Make any breach at all;

Nor smoothness of their language plot Which way to scale the wall; Nor balls of wild-fire love consume

The shrine which I adore;

For if such smoke about thee fume,
I'll never love thee more.

I think thy virtues be too strong
To suffer by surprise;

Which victualled by my love so long,
The siege at length must rise,
And leave thee ruléd in that health
And state thou wast before;

But if thou turn a common-wealth
I'll never love thee more.

For if by fraud, or by consent,
Thy heart to ruin come,
I'll sound no trumpet as I wont,

Nor march by tuck of drum;
But hold my arms, like ensigns, up,
Thy falsehood to deplore,
And bitterly will sigh and weep,
And never love thee more.

I'll do with thee as Nero did,
When Rome was set on fire,

Not only all relief forbid,

But to a hill retire,

And scorn to shed a tear to see

Thy spirit grown so poor; But smiling, sing until I die,

I'll never love thee more.

Yet for the love I bare thee once,
Lest that thy name should die,

A monument of marble-stone
The truth shall testify;
That every pilgrim passing by,

May pity and deplore

My case, and read the reason why
I can love thee no more.

The golden laws of love shall be
Upon this pillar hung;
A simple heart, a single eye,

A true and constant tongue.
Let no man for more love pretend
Than he has hearts in store;
True love begun shall never end,
Love one and love no more.

Then shall thy heart be set by mine,
But in far different case;

But mine was true, so was not thine,
But looked like Janus' face.

For as the waves with every wind,
So sails thou every shore,
And leaves my constant heart behind.
How can I love thee more?

My heart shall with the sun be fixed,
For constancy most strange,

And thine shall with the moon be mixed,
Delighting aye in change.

Thy beauty shined at first most bright,
And woe is me therefore,

That ever I found thy love so light,
I could love thee no more.

As doth the turtle chaste and true,
Her fellow's death regret,

And daily mourns for his adieu,

And ne'er renews her mate;

So though thy faith was never fast,

Which grieves me wondrous sore, Yet I shall live in love so chaste, That I shall love no more.

And when all gallants ride about
These monuments to view,
Whereon is written in and out,

Thou traitorous and untrue;
Then in a passion they shall pause,
And thus say, sighing sore,
Alas! he had too just a cause
Never to love thee more.

And when that tracing goddess Fame
From east to west shall flee,
She shall record it to thy shame,
How thou hast lovéd me;

And how in odds our love was such
As few has been before;

Thou loved too many, and I too much,
That I can love no more.