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Nature must change her beauteous face,

And vary as the seasons rise;
As winter to the spring gives place,

Summer th' approach of autumn flies : No change in love the seasons bring, Love only knows perpetual spring. Devouring Time, with stealing pace,

Makes lofty oaks and cedars bow; And marble towers, and gates of brass,

In his rude march he levels low:
But Time, destroying far and wide,
Love from the soul can ne'er divide.
Death only with his cruel dart,

The gentle godhead can remove;
And drive him from the bleeding heart

To mingle with the bless'd above,
Where, known to all his kindred train,
He finds a lasting rest from pain.
Love, and his sister fair, the soul,

Twin-horn, from heaven together came: Love will the universe control,

When dying seasons lose their name; Divine abodes shall own his power When time and death shall be no more.

воотн.

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 phonix' 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.

H

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