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A Fragment.

THERE's one request I make to Him

Who sits the clouds above:
That I were fairly out of debt,

As I am out of love.

Then for to dance, to drink, and sing,

I should be very willing;
I should not owe one lass a kiss,

Nor any rogue one shilling.

'Tis only being in love, or debt,

That robs us of our rest,
And he that is quite out of both,

Of all the world is blest.

He sees the golden age, wherein

All things were free and common;
He eats, he drinks, he takes his rest-
And fears nor man nor woman.

Sir John Suckling:




If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complain of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey'd tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Thy gown, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies;
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move,
To come to thee, and be thy love.
But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, and age no need ;
Then these delights my mind might move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

Sir Walter Raleigh.


Out upon it, I have loved

Three whole days together;
And am like to love three more,

If it prove fine weather.
Time shall moult away his wings,

Ere he shall discover
In the whole wide world again

Such a constant l ver.

But the spite on't is, no praise

Is due at all to me;
Love with me had made no stays

Had it any been but she.
Had it any been but she,

And that very face,
There had been at least, ere this,
A dozen in her place!

Sir John Suckling.




A Fragment.

CHLUE, why wish you that your years

Would backwards run, till they meet mine,
That perfect likeness, which endears

Things unto things, might us combine?
Our ages so in date agree,
That twins do differ more than we.

There are two births: the one when light

First strikes the new awakened sense;
The other, when two souls unite,

And we must count our life from thence:
When you loved me, and I loved

Then both of us were born anew.

Love then to us did new souls give,

And in those souls did plant new powers;
Since when another life we live,

The breath we breathe is his, not ours;
Love makes those-young, whom age doth chill,
And whom he finds young, keeps young still.

And now since you and I are such,

Tell me what's yours and what is mine?
Our eyes, our ears, our taste, smell, touch,

Do, like our souls, in one combine;
So by this, I as well may be
Too old for you, as you for me.

William Cartwright.



A Fragment.
Why dost thou say I am forsworn,

Since thine I vow'd to be?
Lady, it is already morn;

It was last night I swore to thee

That fond impossibility.
Yet have I loved thee well, and long;

A tedious twelve-hours' space !
I should all other beauties wrong,

And rob thee of a new embrace,
Did I still doat upon that face.

Richard Lovelace.


LOVE not me for comely grace,
For my pleasing eye or face,
Nor for any outward part,
No, nor for my constant heart,-
For these may fail, or turn to ill,

So thou and I shall sever:
Keep, therefore, a true woman's eye,
And love me still, but know not why-
So hast thou the same reason still
To doat upon me ever !




A Fragment.
IF to be absent were to be

Away from thee;
Or that when I am gone

You or I were alone;
Then, my Lucasta, might I crave
Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave.

Though seas and land betwixt us both,

Our faith and troth,
Like separated souls,
All time and


controls: Above the highest sphere we meet Unseen, unknown, and greet as angels greet.

So then we do anticipate

Our after-fate,
And are alive i' the skies,

If thus our lips and eyes
Can speak like spirits unconfined
In heaven, their earthly bodies left behind.

Richard Lovelace.


Wert thou yet fairer in thy feature,
Which lies not in the power of nature;
Or hadst thou in thine eyes more darts
Than ever Cupid shot at hearts;
Yet if they were not thrown at me,
I would not cast a thought on thee.

I'd rather marry a disease,
Than court the thing I could not please :
She that would cherish my desires,
Must meet my flame with equal fires :
What pleasure is there in a kiss
To him that doubts the heart's not his?

I love thee not because thou'rt fair,
Softer than down, smoother than air;
Nor for the Cupids that do lie
In either corner of thine eye:
Would'st thou then know what it might be !
'Tis I love thee 'cause thou lov'st me.


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