Two kindest souls alone must meet, 'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet, And feeds their mutual loves: Bright Venus on her rolling throne Is drawn by gentlest birds alone, And Cupids yoke the doves. --_Dr. Isaac Watts_
Gentle love, this hour befriend me, To my eyes resign thy dart; Notes of melting music lend me, To dissolve a frozen heart.
Chill as mountain snow her bosom, Though I tender language use, 'Tis by cold indifference frozen, To my arms, and to my Muse.
See! my dying eyes are pleading, Where a breaking heart appears; For thy pity interceding With the eloquence of tears.
While the lamp of life is fading, And beneath thy coldness dies, Death my ebbing pulse invading, Take my soul into thy eyes. --_Aaron Hill_
O mark yon Rose-tree! When the West Breathes on her with too warm a zest, She turns her cheek away; Yet if one moment he refrain, She turns her cheek to him again, And woos him still to stay!
Is she not like a maiden coy Press'd by some amorous-breathing boy? Tho' coy, she courts him too, Winding away her slender form, She will not have him woo so warm, And yet will have him woo! --_George Darley_
I loved her for that she was beautiful; And that to me she seem'd to be all Nature, And all varieties of things in one: Would set at night in clouds of tears, and rise All light and laughter in the morning; fear No petty customs nor appearances; But think what others only dream'd about; And say what others did but think; and do What others did but say; and glory in What others dared but do; so pure withal In soul; in heart and act such conscious yet Such perfect innocence, she made round her A halo of delight. 'Twas these which won me;-- And that she never school'd within her breast One thought or feeling, but gave holiday To all; and that she made all even mine In the communion of Love; and we Grew like each other, for we loved each other; She, mild and generous as the air in Spring; And I, like Earth all budding out with love. --_Philip James Bailey_
Celia, confess 'tis all in vain To patch the ruins of thy face; Nor of ill-natur'd time complain, That robs it of each blooming grace.
If love no more shall bend his bow, Nor point his arrows from thine eye, If no lac'd fop, nor feathered beau, Despairing at thy feet shall die.