Where now he flings about his burning heat,
As in a furnace some ambitious fire,

Whose vent is stopt.

Ben Jonson's Volpone.

Love, like od rous Zephyr's grateful breath, Repays the flow'r that sweetness which it borrow'd; Uninjuring, uninjur'd, lovers move

In their own sphere of happiness confest,
By mutual truth avoiding mutual blame.

I am fill'd with such amaze,

Milton's Comus.

So far transported with desire and love
My slippery soul flies to you while I speak.

Oh! what a traitor is my love,

That thus unthrones me!

Rochester's Valentinian.

I see the errors that I would avoid,

And have my reason still, but not the use of 't.

Howard's Vestal Virgin.

If I but mention him, the tears will fall:

Sure there's not a letter in his name,

Love is a child that talks in broken language,

Yet then he speaks most plain.

Dryden's Troilus and Cressida.

I find she loves him much, because she hides it.
Love teaches cunning even to innocence;
And where he gets possession, his first work
Is to dig deep within a heart, and there

Lie hid, and like a miser in the dark,
To feast alone.

Dryden's Tempest.

The dove that murmurs at her mate's neglect,
But counterfeits a coyness to be courted.

Dryden's Amphitryon.

There is no satiety of love in thee;
Enjoy'd, thou still art new: Perpetual spring
Is in thy arms; the ripen'd fruit but falls,
And blossoms rise to fill its empty place,
And I grow rich by giving.

Dryden's All for Love.

My heart's so full of joy,

That I shall do some wild extravagance

Of love in public; and the foolish world

Which knows not tenderness, will think me mad. Ibid.

All love may be expelled by other love,

As poisons are by poisons.

Love gives esteem, and then he gives desert;
He either finds equality, or makes it:

Like death, he knows no difference in degrees,
But planes and levels all.

Ibid.

Dryden's Marriage à la Mode.

I more joy in thee,

Than did thy mother when she hugg'd thee first,
And bless'd the gods for all her travail past.

Otway's Venice Preserved.

My eyes wont lose the sight of thee,

But languish after thine, and ache with gazing. Ibid.

I had so fixed my heart upon her,
That wheresoe'er I fram'd a scheme of life
For time to come, she was my only joy,
With which I used to sweeten future cares :
I fancy'd pleasures, none but one who loves
And doats as I did, can imagine like them.

Ibid.

Love reigns a very tyrant in my heart,
Attended on his throne by all his guard
Of furious wishes, fears, and nice suspicions.

Otway's Orphan.

Curse on this love, this little scare-crow,

love;

That frights fools, with his painted bow of lathe,

Out of their feeble senses.

I'd sooner trust my fortune with a daw,

That hops at every butterfly it sees,

Than Kave to do in honour with a man,
That sells his virtues for a woman's smiles.

Ibid.

Ibid.

With folded arms, and down-cast eyes he stands,
The marks and emblems of a woman's fool.

Otway's Caius Marius.

If it be hopeless love, use generous means;
And lay a kinder beauty to the wound:
Take in a new infection to the heart,
And the rank poison of the old will die.
Let the fools

Who follow Fortune, live upon her smiles;
All our prosperity is plac'd in love:
We have enough of that to make us happy.

Ibid.

Southern's Oroonoko.

O Love! how hard a fate is thine! Obtain'd with trouble, and with pain preserv'd; Never at rest.

Lansdown's Heroic Love.

O Love! thou bane of the most generous souls!
Thou doubtful pleasure, and thou certain pain!
What magic's thine that melts the hardest hearts?
That fools the wisest minds ?

When yet a virgin free and undispos'd,

I lov'd, but saw you only with my eyes;

Ibid.

I could not reach the beauties of your soul:
I have liv'd since in contemplation,

And long experience of your growing goodness;
What then was passion is my judgment now,
Thro' all the several changes of your life
Confirm'd and settled in adoring you.

Hayne's Fatal Mistake.

Such is Love,

And such the laws of his fantastic empire.
The wanton boy delights to bend the mighty,
And scoffs at the vain wisdom of the wise.

Rowe's Royal Convert, a. 2, s. 1.

Love is, or ought to be, our greatest bliss;
Since ev'ry other joy, how dear soever,
Gives way to that, and we leave all for love.

-Rowe's Lady Jane Grey, a. 2, s. 1.

And yet this tough impracticable heart,
Is govern'd by a dainty-finger'd girl;

Such flaws are found in the most worthy natures;
A laughing, toying, wheedling, whimpering she,
Shall make him amble on a gossip's message,
And take the distaff with a hand as patient

As e'er did Hercules. Rowe's Jane Shore, a. 1, s. 1.

Can I behold thee, and not speak of love,

Ev'n now thus sadly as thou stand'st before me,
Thus desolate, dejected, and forlorn ;

Thy softness steals upon my yielding senses,

Till my
soul faints and sickens with desire.

O love! how are thy precious sweetest moments

Ibid.

Thus ever cross'd, thus vex'd with disappointments!
Now pride, now fickleness, fantastic quarrels,
And sullen coldness, give us pain by turns;
Malicious meddling chance is ever busy
To bring us fears, disquiet and delays;

And ev'n at last, when, after all our waiting,
Eager we think to snatch the dear-bought bliss,
Ambition calls us to its sullen cares,

And honour, stern, impatient of neglect,
Commands us to forget our ease and pleasures,
As if we had been made for nought but toil,
And love were not the business of our lives.
Rowe's Ulysses.

I found the fond, believing, love-sick maid
Loose, unattir'd, warm, tender, full of wishes;
Fierceness and pride, the guardians of her honour,
Were charm'd to rest, and love alone was waking.

Rowe's Fair Penitent.

Ye sacred pow'rs, whose gracious providence
is watchful for our good, guard me from men,
From their deceitful tongues, their vows and flatt'ries;
Still let me pass neglected by their eyes:

Let my bloom wither, and my form decay,

That none may think it worth his while to ruin me,
And fatal love
may never be my bane.

Pleasure flows streaming from those lovely eyes,
And with its sweetness overcomes my soul.

Ibid.

Dennis's Rinaldo and Armida.

Oh! shun that passion, as thou would'st thy bane;
The deadliest foe to human happiness,
That poisons all our joys, destroys our quiet.
Love like a beauteous field at first appears,
Whose pleasing verdure ravishes the sight;
But all within the hollow treacherous ground,
Is nought but caverns of perdition.

Higgon's Generous Conqueror.

Love is that passion which refines the soul;
First made men heroes, and those heroes gods;
Its genial fires inform the sluggish mass;

K