IX.

LOVE, dearest Lady, such as I would speak,
Lives not within the humour of the eye ;—
Not being but an outward phantasy,

That skims the surface of a tinted cheek,—

Else it would wane with beauty, and grow weak, As if the rose made summer, and so lie

Amongst the perishable things that die,

Unlike the love which I would give and seek :
Whose health is of no hue-to feel decay

With cheeks' decay, that have a rosy prime.
Love is its own great loveliness alway,

And takes new lustre from the touch of time;
Its bough owns no December and no May,

But bears its blossom into Winter's clime.

END OF VOL. II.

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