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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.



When pleasure sparkles in the cup of youth, And the gay hours on downy wing ad

vance, Oh! then 't is sweet to hear the lip of truth Breathe the soft vows of love, sweet to


The raptured soul by intermingling glance Of mutual bliss; sweet amid roseate

bowers, Led by the hand of love, to weave the dance,

Or unmolested crop life's fairy flowers, Or bask in joy's bright sun through calm,

unclouded hours.

Yet they, who light of heart in May-day

pride, Meet love with smiles and gaily amorous

song, (Though he their softest pleasures may

provide, Even then when pleasures in full concert


They cannot know with what enchantment

strong He steals upon the tender suffering soul, What gently soothing chains to bim belong,

How melting sorrow owns his soft control, Subsiding passions hushed in milder waves

to roll.

When vexed by cares, and harassed by

distress, The storms of fortune chill thy soul with

dread, Let love, consoling love ! still sweetly bless, And his assuasive balm benignly shed; His downy plumage o'er thy pillow spread, Shall lull thy weeping sorrows to repose; To love the tender heart hath ever fled,

As on its mother's breast the infant throws Its sobbing face, and there in sleep forgets

its woes.



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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