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I do love violets! They tell the history of woman's love; They open with the earliest breath of spring; Lead a sweet life of perfume, dew and light, And, if they perish, perish with a sigh Delicious as that life. On the hot June They shed no perfume; the powers may

remain But the rich breathing of their leaves is

past.The violet breath of love is purity.



OH! my dear peerless wife! By the blue sky and all its crowded stars I love you better-oh! far better than Woman was ever loved. There's not an hour Of day or dreaming night but I am with There's not a wind but whispers of thy name, And not a flower that sleeps beneath the


moon, But in its hues or fragrance tells a tale Of thee, my love, to my fond anxious heart.



Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
At cards for kisses, Cupid paid;
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows;
His mother's doves and team of sparrows;
Loses them too: then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on's cheek (but none knows how),
With these the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin;
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
0, Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?



They sin who tell us love can die,
With life all other passions fly,

All others are but vanity.
In heaven ambition cannot dwell,
Nor avarice in the depths of hell.
Earthly these passions, of the earth,
They perish where they have their birth;

But Love is indestructible,

Its holy flame for ever burneth,
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth;

Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times opprest,
It here is tried and purified,
Then hath in heaven its perfect rest;

It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest-time of love is there.
Oh! when a mother meets on high

The babe she lost in infancy,
Hath she not then, for pains and fears,
The day of woe, the watchful night,
For all her sorrow,

all her tears, An over-payment of delight.



'Tis nature's second sun, Causing a spring of virtues where he shines. And as without the Sun, the world's Great

Eye, All colours, beauties, both of art and nature, Are given in vain to man; so without Love, All beauties bred in women are in vain, All virtues born in men lie buried; For love informs them as the sun doth colours, And as the Sun, reflecting his warm beams Against the earth, begets all fruit and flowers, So Love, fair shining in the inward man, Brings forth in him the honourable fruits Of valour, wit, virtue, and haughty thoughts, Brave resolution, and divine discourse.



Love in my bosom, like a bee

Doth suck his sweet; Now with his wings he plays with me,

Now with his feet.

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amid my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast;
And yet he robs me of my rest.

Strike I my lute~he tunes the string,
He music plays if I do sing;
He lends me every living thing,
Yet, cruel, he my heart doth sting.

What if I beat the wanton boy

With many a rod;
He will repay me with annoy,

Because a god.

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