INCONSTANCY OF LOVE. So glides along a wanton brook Upon the short-lived fav'rite's face, The god of the ill-managed flames, Who ne'er kept word in promised joy To lover nor to loving dames: So all alike will constant prove, Both Fortune, running streams, and Love. LOVE HATH NO PHYSICIAN. A RESTLESS lover I espy'd, That went from place to place; Lay down and turned from side to side, And sometimes on his face; And when that med'cines were applied, In hope of intermission, As one that felt no ease, he cried, "Has Cupid no physician?" What do the ladies with their looks, Have we such palsies and such pains, No quintessential chymick grains, No creature can beneath the sun Prevail in opposition? And when all wonders can be done, "Hath Cupid no physician?" Into what poison do they dip Into their inquisition, That Death had never surgeon yet, Nor Cupid a physician. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. JOHN FLETCHER, born 1576, died 1625. FRANCIS BEAUMONT, born 1585, died 1615. SONG. [In "The Captain."] TELL me, dearest, what is love? "'Tis a lightning from above; 'Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire; 'Tis a boy they call Desire; 'Tis a grave Those poor fools that long to prove." Tell me more, are women true? 66 Yes, some are, and some as you. Some are willing, some are strange, And till troth Be in both, All shall love, to love anew." Tell me more yet, can they grieve? "Yes, and sicken sore, but live, And be wise, and delay, When you men are as wise as they." Then I see Faith will be Never, till they both believe. SONG. [In "A Wife for a Month."] LET those complain that feel Love's cruelty, No more an exile will I dwell, With folded arms and sighs all day, I am call'd home again to quiet peace; Yet what is living in her eye, Or being bless'd with her sweet tongue, If these no other joys imply? A golden gyve*, a pleasing wrong. To be your own but one poor month, I'd give My youth, my fortune, and then leave to live. * A fetter. ROBERT HERRICK, Born 1591, died about 1664. TO HIS MISTRESS OBJECTING TO HIM NEITHER You say I love not, 'cause I do not play Deep waters noise-less are; and this we know, TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME. GATHER ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a flying; And this same flower that smiles to-day, |