Thou
Art more through love, and greater than thy years.
A virgin purest-lipped, yet in the lore
Of love, deep-learned to the red heart’s core.
But that you love,
You would not your unhoused free condition
Put into circumscription and confine
For the sea’s worth.
Thou wilt be a lover presently.
A heart as sound as a bell.
There is no true drop of blood in thee to be
truly touched with love.
But a dream,
Too flattering sweet to be substantial.
The sweet youth’s in love.
Oh how the spring of love resembleth
The uncertain glories of an April day,
Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,
And by and by a cloud takes all away.
Perfect esteem, enlivened by desire
Ineffable, and sympathy of soul;
Thought meeting thought, and will preventing will,
With boundless confidence.
Young men’s love, then, lies
Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.
Your heart is burst—you have lost half your soul.
This is the very ecstasy of love,
Whose violent property foredoes itself,
And leads the will to desperate undertakings,
As oft as any passion under heaven
That does afflict our natures.
The worst fault you have, is to be in love.
Is it possible
That love should, of a sudden, take such hold?
.mw-parser-output .wst-bar{text-decoration:line-through}.mw-parser-output .wst-bar-inner{color:transparent}———She alone,
Heard, felt, and seen, possesses every thought,
Fills every sense.
Rich in kindest, truest love.
Oh how hard it is to find
The one just suited to your mind!
Oh! and you, forsooth, in love,
You that have been Love’s whip!
Never wedding, ever wooing,
Still a lovelorn heart pursuing.
Come, come! Wrestle with thy affections.
Rouse yourself, and the weak wanton Cupid
Shall from your neck unloose his amorous folds,
And, like a dew-drop from a lion’s mane,
Be shook to air.
As m the bosom of the stream,
The moonbeam dwells at dewy e’en,
So trembling, pure, is tender love,
Within thy breast.———
Oh beware of jealousy;
It is the green-eyed monster which doth make
The meat it feeds on.
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———Oh what damned moments tells she o’er
Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves.
If you love the maid,
Bend thoughts and wits to achieve her.
It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be,
Ere one can say, It lightens.
A violet in the youth of primy nature,
Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting,
The perfume and suppliance of a minute,
No more.
A woman of a steadfast mind,
Tender and deep in thy excess of love.
Had ye never loved sae kindly,
Had ye never loved sae blindly,
Never met—or never parted,
Ye had ne’er been broken-hearted.
More joy it gives thy youthful breast,
To make ten frigid coxcombs vain,
Than one true, manly lover blest.
Of loving fond, of roving fonder.