Volume Ii Part 29 (2/2)

When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses bound, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free-- Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty.

When, like committed linnets, I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty, And glories of my King; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage; If I have freedom in my love And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty.

Richard Lovelace [1618-1658]

WHY I LOVE HER

'Tis not her birth, her friends, nor yet her treasure, Nor do I covet her for sensual pleasure, Nor for that old morality Do I love her, 'cause she loves me.

Sure he that loves his lady 'cause she's fair, Delights his eye, so loves himself, not her.

Something there is moves me to love, and I Do know I love, but know not how, nor why.

Alexander Brome [1620-1666]

TO HIS COY MISTRESS

Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime.

We would sit down and think which way To walk and pa.s.s our long love's day.

Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews.

My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart.

For, Lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.

Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song: then worms shall try That long preserved virginity, And your quaint honor turn to dust, And into ashes all my l.u.s.t: The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapt power.

Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Through the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Andrew Marvell [1621-1678]

A DEPOSITION FROM BEAUTY

Though when I loved thee thou wert fair, Thou art no longer so; These glories all the pride they wear Unto opinion owe.

Beauties, like stars, in borrowed l.u.s.ter s.h.i.+ne; And 'twas my love that gave thee thine.

The flames that dwelt within thine eye Do now with mine expire; Thy brightest graces fade and die At once with my desire.

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