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“ Fair Proserpina” (quoth she)
“ Shall not have thee yet from me;
Nor thy soul to fly begin
While my lips can keepe it in.”
Here she clos'd again. And some
Say, Apollo would have come
To have cured his wounded lym,
But that she had smother'd him.



FAYRE is my love, when her fayre golden

haires With the loose wynd ye waving chance to

marke; Fayre when the rose in her red cheekes

appeares; Or in her eyes the fyre of love does sparke. Fayre, when her breast, like a rich laden


With pretious merchandize she forth doth


Fayre, when that cloud of pryde, which oft

doth mark Her goodly light, with smiles she drives

away. But fayrest she, when so she doth display The gate with pearles and rubyes richly

dight; Through which her words so wise do make

their way

To beare the message of her gentle spright;

The rest be works of nature's wonderment, But this the works of hart's astonishment.



They say we are too young to love,

Too wild to be united;
In scorn they bid us both renounce

The fond vows we have plighted.

They send thee forth to see the world,

Thy love by absence trying;
Then go ; for I can smile farewell -

Upon thy truth relying.
I know that pleasure's hand will throw

Her silken nets about thee;
I know how lonesome I shall find

The long, long days without thee.
But in thy letters there'll be joy;

The reading-the replying:
I'll kiss each word that's traced by thee,

Upon thy truth relying.
When friends applaud thee, I'll sit by,

In silent rapture gazing ;
And, oh ! how proud of being loved

By her they have been praising !
But should detraction breath thy name,

The world's reproof defying;
I'll love thee-laud thee-trust thee still,

Upon thy truth relying.
E'en those who smile to see us part,

Shall see us meet with wonder;
Such trials only make the heart

That truly loves grow fonder.

Our sorrows past shall be our pride,

When with each other vying, Thou wilt confide in him, who lives

Upon thy truth relying.



Maid of my love! sweet Genevieve;

In beauty's light you glide along:


is like the star of eve, And sweet your voice, as seraph's song. Yet not your heavenly beauty gives

This heart with passion soft to glow : Within your soul a voice there lives!

It bids you hear the tale of woe, When sinking low the suffører wan

Beholds no hand outstretch'd to save,
Fair, as the bosom of the swan

That rises graceful o'er the wave,
I've seen your breast with pity heave-
And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve !



O Nightingale ! best poet of the grove,
That plaintive strain can ne'er belong to

Blest in the full possession of thy love;

O lend that strain, sweet nightingale, to

me !

'Tis mine, alas ! to mourn my wretched fate:

I love a maid who all my bosom charms, Yet lose my days without this lovely mate;

Inhuman fortune keeps her from my arms. You, happy birds! by nature's simple laws Lead your soft lives, sustain'd by nature's

fare; You dwell wherever roving fancy draws,

And love and song is all your pleasing care. But we, vain slaves of interest and of pride, Dare not be blest lest envious tongues

should blame; And hence, in vain I languish for my bride; O mourn with me, sweet bird, my hapless



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