When, Dearest, I But Think of Thee" 579

And yet he shines as bright as you,
If brightness could our souls subdue.

'Tis not the pretty things you say,
Nor those you write,

Which can make Thyrsis' heart your prey:

For that delight,

The graces of a well-taught mind,

In some of our own sex we find.

No, Flavia, 'tis your love I fear;
Love's surest darts,

Those which so seldom fail him, are
Headed with hearts:

Their very shadows make us yield;

Dissemble well, and win the field!

Edmund Waller [1606-1687]

"LOVE NOT ME FOR COMELY GRACE"

LOVE not me for comely grace,

For my pleasing eye or face;

Nor for any outward part,

No, nor for a constant heart:

For these may fail or turn to ill,

So thou and I shall sever.

Keep, therefore, a true woman's eye,

And love me still, but know not why;

So hast thou the same reason still

To doat upon me ever.

Unknown

"WHEN, DEAREST, I BUT THINK OF THEE"

WHEN, dearest, I but think of thee,

Methinks all things that lovely be
Are present, and my soul delighted:

For beauties that from worth arise

Are like the grace of deities,

Still present with us, though unsighted.

Thus while I sit and sigh the day
With all his borrowed lights away,

Till night's black wings do overtake me,
Thinking on thee, thy beauties then,
As sudden lights do sleepy men,

So they by their bright rays awake me.

Thus absence dies, and dying proves
No absence can subsist with loves

That do partake of fair perfection:
Since in the darkest night they may
By love's quick motion find a way
To see each other by reflection.

The waving sea can with each flood
Bathe some high promont that hath stood
Far from the main up in the river:
O think not then but love can do

As much! for that's an ocean too,

Which flows not every day, but ever!

John Suckling [1609-1642]

A DOUBT OF MARTYRDOM

O FOR Some honest lover's ghost,
Some kind unbodied post

Sent from the shades below!
I strangely long to know
Whether the noble chaplets wear
Those that their mistress' scorn did bear
Or those that were used kindly.

For whatsoe'er they tell us here
To make those sufferings dear,
"Twill there, I fear, be found
That to the being crowned
To have loved alone will not suffice,
Unless we also have been wise

And have our loves enjoyed.

To Chloe

What posture can we think him in
That, here unloved, again

Departs, and's thither gone

Where each sits by his own?
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 noble martyrs here:

And if that be the only odds

(As who can tell?), ye kinder gods,

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 met 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:

581

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.

To Althea, From Prison

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 noble ways

Were never heard before;

I'll crown and deck thee all with bays,

And love thee evermore.

583

James Graham [1612-1650]

TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON

WHEN Love with unconfinèd wings

Hovers within my gates,

And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at the grates;