It's not the weather, nor the air,
It is thyself, that is so fair;
Nor doth it rain when heaven lowers,
But when you frown, then fall the showers.
One sun alone moves in the sky,—
Two suns thou hast, one in each eye;
Only by day that sun gives light,-
Where thine doth risc there is no night.
Fair starry twins, scoru not to shine
Upon my lambs, upon my kine ;
My grass dotli grow, my corn and wheat,
My fruit, my vines, thrive by their heat.
Thou shalt have wool, thou shalt have silk,
Thou shalt have honey, wine, and milk;
Thou shalt have all, for all is due
Where thoughts are free and love is true.
The bleakest rock upon the loneliest heath
Feels, in its barrenness, some touch of spring
And, in the April dew, or beam of May,
Its moss and lichen freshens and revives:
And thus the heart, most sear'd to human pleasure,
Melts at the tear, joys at the smile of woman.
Love is a region, full of fires,
And burning with extreme desires,
An object secks, of which possest
The wheels are fixed, the motions rest,
The flames in ashes lie opprest:
This meteor, striving high to risc,
(The fuel spent) falls down and dies.
Much sweeter, and more pure delights
Are drawn from fair alluring sights,
When ravisht minds attempt to praise
Commanding eyes, like heavenly rays;
Whose force the gentle heart obeys:
Than where the end of this pretence
Descends to base inferior sense.
Why then should lovers (most will say)
Expect so much th' enjoying day?'
Love is like youth, he thirsts for age,
He scorns to be his mother's page :
But when proceeding time assuage
The former heat, he will complain,
And wish those pleasant hours again.”
We know that Hope and Love are twins!
Hope gone, fruition now begins;
But what is this? Unconstant, frail,
In nothing sure, but sure to fail:
Which, if we lose it, we bewail!
And when we have it, still we bear
The worst of passions, daily fear.
When Love thus in his centre ends,
Desire and Hope, his inward friends,
Are shaken off: while Doubt aud Grief,
The weakest givers of relief,
Stand in his council as the chief:
And now he to this period brought,
From Love, becomes some other thought.
These lines I write not to remove
United souls from serious love:
The best attempts by mortals made,
Reflect on things which quickly fade !
Yet never will I men persuade
To leave affections, where may shine
Impressions of the Love divinc.
Trust not, sweet Soul! those curled waves of gold,
With gentle tides that on your temples flow!
Nor temples spread with flakes of virgin snow !
Nor snow of cheeks, with tyrian grain enroll'd:
Trust not those shining lights, which wrought my woe
When first I did their azure rays behold!
Nor voice, whose sounds more strange effects do show
Than of the thracian harper have been told.
Look to this dying lily, fading rose!
Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing beams
Made all the neighbouring herbs and grass rejoice!
And think how little is 'twixt life's extremes !
The cruel tyrant, that did kill those flow'rs,
Shall once, ah me! not spare that Spring of your's.
O sacred Blush! enpurpling checks' pure skies
With crimson wings, which spread thee like the morn?
O bashful Look! sent from those shining eyes,
Which, though slid down on earth, doth heaven
adorn!
O Tongue! in which most luscious nectar lies,
That can at once both bless and make forlorn!
Dear coral Lip! which beauty beautifies:
That trembling stood, before her words were born!
And ye, her Words! words no-but golden chains
Which did enslave my cars, ensnare my soul;
Wise image of her mind, mind that contains
A power all power of senses to control:
So sweetly you from love dissuade do me,
That I love more, if more my love can be.
All other Beauties, howsoe'er they shine!
In hairs more bright than is the golden ore,
Or cheeks more fair than fairest eglantine,
Or hands like her that comes the sun before !
Match'd with that heavenly hue and shape of thine,
With those dear stars which my weak thoughts adore,
Look but as shadows-or if they be more,
It is in this, that they are like to thine !
Who sees those eyes, their force that doth not prove? Who gazeth on the dimple of that chin,
And finds not Venus' son entrench'd therein,
Or hath not sense, or knows not what is love.
To see thee, had Narcissus had the grace,
He would have died with wondering on thy face!
The kiss, with so much strife,
Which I late got, sweet Heart!
Was it a sign of death, or was it life!
Of life it could not be,
For I by it did sigh my soul in thee:
Nor was it death, death doth no joy impart.
Thou silent stand'st.—Ah! what didst thou bequeath; A dying life to me, or living death?
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