Love, what art thou? Light, and fair,
Fresh as morning, clear as the air :

But too soon thy evening change

Makes thy worth with coldness range;
Still thy joy is mixed with care.

Love, what art thou? A secret flower,
Once full blown, dead in an hour.

Dust in wind as staid remains

As thy pleasure, or our gains,
If thy humour change to lour.
Love, what art thou? Childish, vain,
Firm as bubbles made by rain ;
Wantonness thy greatest pride;
These foul faults thy virtues hide;
But babes can no staidness gain.

Love, what art thou? Causeless curst,
Yet, alas, these not the worst.

Much more of thee may be said;
But thy law I once obeyed,

Therefore say no more at first.

The Countess of Montgomery's

Wroath.

Urania, 1621.

Sonnet

IF, of a wretched state and all forlorn,
That be the wretched'st, not at all to be—
Since in condemned prisoners we may see
Though they must die they 'd not not have been
born,-

Then, by oblivion, to be slowly torn,

Or vexed with absence in extremity,

Or plagued with rage of restless jealousy,

These nothing are to not being loved, (a scorn).

He that 's forgotten, yet a being had ;
He that is absent may return again;
He that is jealous may find constancy.
But still to follow shadows, love in vain,
Still to be hopeless (worse than to be mad),
That never was, is, or shall happy be.

Gerado, 1622.

Dearest, do not you delay me

DEAREST, do not you delay me,

Digges.

Since, thou knowest, I must be gone;
Wind and tide, 'tis thought, doth stay me,
But 'tis wind that must be blown

From that breath, whose native smell
Indian odours far excel.

Oh, then speak, thou fairest fair!

Kill not him that vows to serve thee;

But perfume this neighbouring air,
Else dull silence, sure, will starve me :
"Tis a word that 's quickly spoken,

Which being restrained, a heart is broken.

The Spanish Curate, in

Fifty Comedies and Tragedies, 1679.

(Licensed 1622.)*

J. Fletcher.

To Time

TIME, I ever must complain

Of thy craft and cruel cunning;
Seeming fixed here to remain,

When thy feet are ever running;

And thy plumes

Still resumes

Courses new, repose most shunning.

Like calm winds thou passest by us;
Lined with feathers are thy feet:
Thy downy wings with silence fly us,
Like the shadows of the night;
Or the stream

That no beam

Of sharpest eye discerns to fleet.

Therefore mortals, all deluded
By thy grave and wrinkled face,
In their judgements have concluded
That thy slow and snail-like pace
Still doth bend

To no end

But to an eternal race.

Budding Youth's vain blooming wit
Thinks the spring shall ever last,

And the gaudy flowers that sit

On Flora's brow, shall never taste
Winter's scorn,

Nor, forlorn,

Bend their heads with chilling blast.

Riper Age expects to have

Harvests of his proper

toil;

Times to give and to receive

Seeds and fruits from fertile soil :

But, at length,

Doth his strength,

Youth, and beauty, all recoil.

Cold December hope retains

That the spring, each thing reviving,

Shall throughout his aged veins

Pour fresh youth, past joys repriving :

Sweetly they breathe the wanton love

That Nature in them warms:

And each to gain a mate doth prove
With sweet enchanting charms.

He sweetly sings, and stays the nimble wings
Of her in the air,

She hovering stays, to hear his loving lays
Which woo her there :

She becomes willing, hears him woo,

Gives ear unto his song;
And doth as Nature taught her do,

Yields, sued unto not long.

But Celia stays, she feeds me with delays,

Hears not my moan:

She knows the smart in time will kill my heart
To live alone :

Learn of the birds to choose thee a pheare,
But not like them to range:

They have their mate but for a year,

But, sweet, let 's never change.

pheare] fere, mate.

The turtle-dove let 's imitate in love,
That still loves one :

Dear, do not stay, youth quickly flies away,
Then desire 's gone.

Love is kindest, and hath most length,

The kisses are most sweet,

When it's enjoyed in heat of strength,
Where like affections meet.

The Nightingale, etc., 1622.

Hannay.

A maid me loved

A MAID me loved; her love I not respected;
She mourned, she signed, nay, sued, yet I neglected :
Too late! too late! alas, I now repent,

For Cupid with her love hath me infected.

As erst he hers, so love my heart now burneth ;
As I at her, she laughs at me that mourneth :
Too late! too late! alas, I now repent,
Since her disdained love to hatred turneth.

On her alone doth health and hope rely,
Yet still she scorns and doth me love deny :
Too late! too late! alas, I now repent,
Since she joys in my death, I for her die.

Ibid.

I wandered out

I WANDERED Out, a while agone,
And went I know not whither;
But there do Beauties, many a one,
Resort, and meet together:

Hannay.