Or how can that Elysium be Where I my mistress still must see Circled in other's arms?

For there the judges all are just, And Sophonisba must Be his whom she held dear, Not his who loved her here.

The sweet Philoclea, since she died, Lies by her Pirocles his side, Not by Amphialus.

Some bays, perchance, or myrtle bough For difference crowns the brow Of those kind souls that were The n.o.ble martyrs here: And if that be the only odds (As who can tell?), ye kinder G.o.ds, Give me the woman here!

John Suckling [1609-1642]

TO CHLOE Who For His Sake Wished Herself Younger

Chloe, why wish you that your years Would backwards run till they meet mine, That perfect likeness, which endears Things unto things, might us combine?

Our ages so in date agree, That twins do differ more than we.

There are two births; the one when light First strikes the new awakened sense; The other when two souls unite, And we must count our life from thence: When you loved me and I loved you Then both of us were born anew.

Love then to us new souls did give And in those souls did plant new powers; Since when another life we live, The breath we breathe is his, not ours: Love makes those young whom age doth chill, And whom he finds young keeps young still.

Love, like that angel that shall call Our bodies from the silent grave, Unto one age doth raise us all; None too much, none too little have; Nay, that the difference may be none, He makes two, not alike, but one.

And now since you and I are such, Tell me what's yours, and what is mine?

Our eyes, our ears, our taste, smell, touch, Do, like our souls, in one combine; So, by this, I as well may be Too old for you, as you for me.

William Cartwright [1611-1643]

"I'll NEVER LOVE THEE MORE"

My dear and only Love, I pray This little world of thee Be governed by no other sway Than purest monarchy; For if confusion have a part, Which virtuous souls abhor, And hold a synod in thy heart, I'll never love thee more.

Like Alexander I will reign, And I will reign alone; My thoughts did evermore disdain A rival on my throne.

He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, That dares not put it to the touch To gain or lose it all.

But I must rule and govern still, And always give the law, And have each subject at my will And all to stand in awe.

But 'gainst my batteries if I find Thou kick, or vex me sore, As that thou set me up a blind, I'll never love thee more!

Or in the empire of thy heart, Where I should solely be, If others do pretend a part And dare to vie with me, Or if committees thou erect, And go on such a score, I'll laugh and sing at thy neglect, And never love thee more.

But if thou wilt be faithful, then, And constant of thy word, I'll make thee glorious by my pen And famous by my sword; I'll serve thee in such n.o.ble ways Were never heard before; I'll crown and deck thee all with bays, And love thee evermore.

James Graham [1612-1650]

TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON

When Love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair And fettered to her eye, The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses bound, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free-- Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty.

When, like committed linnets, I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty, And glories of my King; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage; If I have freedom in my love And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty.

Richard Lovelace [1618-1658]

WHY I LOVE HER

'Tis not her birth, her friends, nor yet her treasure, Nor do I covet her for sensual pleasure, Nor for that old morality Do I love her, 'cause she loves me.

Sure he that loves his lady 'cause she's fair, Delights his eye, so loves himself, not her.

Something there is moves me to love, and I Do know I love, but know not how, nor why.

Alexander Brome [1620-1666]

TO HIS COY MISTRESS

Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime.

We would sit down and think which way To walk and pa.s.s our long love's day.

Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews.

My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart.

For, Lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.

Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song: then worms shall try That long preserved virginity, And your quaint honor turn to dust, And into ashes all my l.u.s.t: The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapt power.

Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Through the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Andrew Marvell [1621-1678]

A DEPOSITION FROM BEAUTY

Though when I loved thee thou wert fair, Thou art no longer so; These glories all the pride they wear Unto opinion owe.

Beauties, like stars, in borrowed l.u.s.ter shine; And 'twas my love that gave thee thine.

The flames that dwelt within thine eye Do now with mine expire; Thy brightest graces fade and die At once with my desire.