Volume Ii Part 2 (2/2)

They are becalmed in clearest days, And in rough weather tossed; They wither under cold delays, Or are in tempests lost.

One while they seem to touch the port, Then straight into the main Some angry wind, in cruel sport, The vessel drives again.

At first Disdain and Pride they fear, Which if they chance to 'scape, Rivals and Falsehood soon appear, In a more dreadful shape.

By such degrees to joy they come, And are so long withstood, So slowly they receive the sum, It hardly does them good.

'Tis cruel to prolong a pain; And to defer a joy, Believe me, gentle Celemene, Offends the winged boy.

An hundred thousand oaths your fears, Perhaps, would not remove; And if I gazed a thousand years, I could no deeper love.

Charles Sedley [1639?-1710]

THE VINE From ”Sunday Up the River”

The wine of Love is music, And the feast of Love is song: And when Love sits down to the banquet, Love sits long:

Sits long and arises drunken, But not with the feast and the wine; He reeleth with his own heart, That great, rich Vine.

James Thomson [1834-1882]

SONG

Fain would I change that note To which fond love hath charmed me, Long, long to sing by rote, Fancying that that harmed me: Yet when this thought doth come,-- Love is the perfect sum Of all delight.

I have no other choice Either for pen or voice To sing or write.

O love, they wrong thee much That say thy sweet is bitter When thy rich fruit is such As nothing can be sweeter.

Fair house of joy and bliss Where truest pleasure is, I do adore thee: I know thee what thou art, I serve thee with my heart, And fall before thee.

Unknown

CUPID STUNG

Cupid once upon a bed Of roses laid his weary head; Luckless urchin, not to see Within the leaves a slumbering bee.

The bee awaked--with anger wild The bee awaked, and stung the child.

Loud and piteous are his cries; To Venus quick he runs, he flies; ”Oh Mother! I am wounded through-- I die with pain--in sooth I do!

Stung by some little angry thing, Some serpent on a tiny wing-- A bee it was--for once, I know, I heard a rustic call it so.”

Thus he spoke, and she the while Heard him with a soothing smile; Then said, ”My infant, if so much Thou feel the little wild bee's touch, How must the heart, ah, Cupid! be, The hapless heart that's stung by thee!”

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

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