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She said, never man was true:
SEND back my long-stray'd eyes to me,
To sweetly smile,
And then beguile,
To forfeit both
Its word and oath,
Shalt grieve and mourn
Of one the scorn,
I LOVED thee once, I'll love no more,
Thine be the grief as is the blame; Thou art not what thou wast before, What reason I should be the same?
He that can love unloved again,
Hath better store of love than brain : God send me love my debts to pay, While unthrifts fool their love away!
Nothing could have my love o’erthrown,
If thou hadst still continued mine;
But thou thy freedom didst recall,
That if thou might elsewhere inthrall : And then how could I but disdain
A captive's captive to remain ?
And changed the object of thy will,
Yea, it had been a sin to go
And prostitute affection so,
Yet do thou glory in thy choice,
Thy choice of his good fortune boast;
The height of my disdain shall be
To laugh at him, to blush for thee;
Sir Robert Ayton.
WHEN slumber first unclouds my brain,
And thought is free,
I think of thee.
I bend my knee,
I pray for thee.
Demand of me
I work for thee.
Whate'er it be;
They say of thee.
Gleams like the sea,
They sing of thee.
The thought of thee.
I dream of thee.
To live for thee;
SINCE first I saw your face I resolved
To honour and renown you; If now I be disdain'd, I wish
My heart I had never known you. What? I that loved, and you that liked
Shall we begin to wrangle?-
And cannot disentangle !
That fault you may forgive me;
Then justly might you leave me.
Is't now a time to chide me?
What fortune e'er betide me.
The sun, whose beams most glorious are,
Rejecteth no beholder;
Made my poor eyes the bolder.
And signs of kindness bind me, There, oh! there, where'er I go, I leave my heart behind me.
As at noon Dulcina rested
In her sweet and shady bower,
But from her look
A wound he took
The nymph he prays,
Whereto she says, “Forego me now, come to me soon.”
But in vain she did conjure him
To depart her presence so;
Where lips invite,
And eyes delight,
What boots she say,
O MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming ?
That can sing both high and low;
Every wise mans' son doth know.
What's to come is still unsure;
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,
That kisses everything it meets :