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FAINT Amorist! what, dost think
To taste love's honey, and not drink
One dram of gall? or to devour

A world of sweets and taste no sour?
Dost thou ever think to enter

Th' Elysian fields, that dar'st not venture
In Charon's barge! A lover's mind
Must use to sail with every wind.

He that loves, and fears to try,
Learns his mistress to deny.

Doth she chide thee? 't is to shew it
That thy coldness makes her do it.
Is she silent? is she mute?
Silence fully grants thy suit.
Doth she pout and leave the room?
Then she goes to bid thee come.

Is she sick? why then be sure
She invites thee to the cure.

Doth she cross thy suit with "No!"

Tush! she loves to hear thee woo.

Doth she call the faith of men

In question? nay, she loves thee then

And if e'er she makes a blot,

She's lost if that thou hitt'st her not.

He that, after ten denials,

Dares attempt no farther trials,

Hath no warrant to acquire

The dainties of his chaste desire.

;

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

THE DIFFIDENCE OF LOVE.

WHY should I blush to own I love?
'Tis Love that rules the realms above.
Why should I blush to say to all
That Virtue holds my heart in thrall?

Why should I seek the thickest shade,
Lest Love's dear secret be betray'd?
Why the stern brow deceitful move,
When I am languishing with love?

Is it a weakness thus to dwell
On passion that I dare not tell?
Such weakness I would ever prove:
'Tis painful, but 't is sweet to love!

H. K. WHITE.

THE SIREN'S SONG.

STEERE hither, steere, your winged pines,

All beaten mariners,

Here lie Love's undiscovered mines,

A prey to passengers;

Perfumes far sweeter than the best

Which make the phoenix' urn and nest,
Fear not youre ships,

Nor any to oppose you, save our lips;
But come on shore

Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.

For swelling waves, our panting breasts,
Where never stormes arise,

Exchange; and be awhile our guests:
For starres gaze on our eyes.

The compass, love shall hourly sing,
And as he goes about the ring,
We will not misse

To tell each point he nameth with a kisse.

BROWNE.

VENUS AND ADONIS.

Venus by Adonis' side

Crying kist and kissing cryde,

Wrung her hands and tore her hayre
For Adonis dying there.

"Stay," (quoth she) "O stay and live! Nature surely doth not give

To the earth her sweetest flowers

To be seene but some few houres."

On his face, still as he bled,
For each drop a tear she shed,
Which she kist or wipt away,
Else had drown'd him where he lay.

Н

"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.

SONNET.

BROWNE.

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

barke,

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