1247 Love poems

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will, And Will to boot, and Will in overplus; More than enough am I that vex thee still, To thy sweet will making addition thus. Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious, Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine? Shall will in others seem right gracious, And in my will no fair acceptance shine? The sea, all water, yet receives rain still, And in abundance addeth to his store; So thou being rich in Will add to thy Will One will of mine, to make thy large Will more. Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill; Think all but one, and me in that one Will.

When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her, though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutored youth, Unlearnèd in the world’s false subtleties. Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, Although she knows my days are past the best, Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue: On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed. But wherefore says she not she is unjust? And wherefore say not I that I am old? Oh, love’s best habit is in seeming trust, And age in love loves not to have years told. Therefore I lie with her and she with me, And in our faults by lies we flattered be.

O, call not me to justify the wrong That thy unkindness lays upon my heart; Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue; Use power with power, and slay me not by art. Tell me thou lov’st elsewhere; but in my sight, Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside; What need’st thou wound with cunning when thy might Is more than my o’erpressed defense can bide? Let me excuse thee: ah, my love well knows Her pretty looks have been mine enemies; And therefore from my face she turns my foes, That they elsewhere might dart their injuries— Yet do not so; but since I am near slain, Kill me outright with looks and rid my pain.

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes, For they in thee a thousand errors note; But ‘tis my heart that loves what they despise, Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote; Nor are mine ears with thy tongue’s tune delighted, Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone, Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited To any sensual feast with thee alone: But my five wits nor my five senses can Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee, Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man, Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal wretch to be. Only my plague thus far I count my gain, That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

Two loves I have of comfort and despair, Which like two spirits do suggest me still The better angel is a man right fair, The worser spirit a woman coloured ill. To win me soon to hell, my female evil Tempteth my better angel from my side, And would corrupt my saint to be a devil, Wooing his purity with her foul pride. And, whether that my angel be turn’d fiend, Suspect I may, yet not directly tell, But being both from me both to each friend, I guess one angel in another’s hell. Yet this shall I ne’er know, but live in doubt, Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

My love is as a fever, longing still For that which longer nurseth the disease, Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, Th’ uncertain sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, Hath left me, and I desperate now approve Desire is death, which physic did except. Past cure I am, now reason is past care, And frantic-mad with evermore unrest; My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are, At random from the truth vainly expressed: For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

«My face in thine eye, and thine in mine» is true speech, and is I read naturally, is male, and if, I did not look but basketfuls of presumptive eggs all wet do nothing for us playing at it. If and is don't lack for harmless napkins like freed, unending time bleats through the washed away. In mine, suns dulcet polishing of a tlooth, «as much falsity as I can use, I carry.» On the level, a prop- osition to disrobe contra shit on the streets steams near a hot- spot a relationship a sign a man pinned to your back moves a name I'd armament but you know in a flageolet sitch I'd do any- thing for you so. On the level? She ran her car aground as his ships firing agony in sand mag- netized black screens of mites, her car OK tho, it hurts, hood- winked and The Image in Form is a book of art writing by Adrian Stokes and also in Malina, the fact is «l've never been happy, but I have seen beauty.» What a fine replacement. Blubbery and dying in my same as breastbone for you is some fixed charge waiting for Papermate ® to stir a con- ditional tense apparition, or is that a coffee, tedious wall clouds are rather of soap, see and hath sense since torment and hydromancy bothered to tune. More, more if must be, more if I'd be into it, I said I'd do whatever. What would she of the unmistake- ably Gothic appearance write me, «l'm losing my mind with probity presumably forever,» sure, I like most care more than fuck- ing Tiffany's rattle, inlaid with let's book it to Alpine, if a diviner knew you then too as I do. I wish she would tell me what to do with you, or if I did look, How marvelous to see you, post-screening, makes «true hearts in plain faces rest» more larding and accurate? Or whether revolution be the same. In 1938, hotspot was employed in the firefighting sense and whitish smoke employment gives other women illustrates finitude onscreen, a labor of demand. If other women wanted finitude over touchable repetition or if I beat and beat salad or roast new potatoes deeply in salt and oil and exclaim their spits as an otter might shriek the slightest un- attitude vocable across your hunks in Pisces comportment, or with happens in trying and apts. to go mad in, surely it's been nothing near this terrific face I never in real head'd defenestrate

Why & what is sweetness all alone? Either that or it becomes, alas, fleeting, Which actually helps, because of rhythm. & there’s a pale intensity to truth, no matter How pale it is on the levels we receive on. I mean, the minute you invent a time interval The more it seems to “jelly out” the excitation Of accidents;zum Beispiel, “Saginaw, Michigan.” After a while, we almost expect him or her To inveigle us into a cafe without bay-breasted warblers. It’s almost like we have a streak of orange-smell Which nobody’ll pay for because they can’t talk to it, Although that’s probably all wrong, or at least falsified By its very mention, like gravity. Do you agree?

Of thee, kind boy, I ask no red and white, To make up my delight; No odd becoming graces, Black eyes, or little know-not-whats in faces; Make me but mad enough, give me good store Of love for her I count; I ask no more, ’Tis love in love that makes the sport. There’s no such thing as that we beauty call, It is mere cozenage all; For though some, long ago, Liked certain colors mingled so and so, That doth not tie me now from choosing new; If I a fancy take To black and blue, That fancy doth it beauty make. ’Tis not the meat, but ’tis the appetite Makes eating a delight; And if I like one dish More than another, that a pheasant is; What in our watches, that in us is found: So to the height and nick We up be wound, No matter by what hand or trick.

Hand trembling towards hand; the amazing lights Of heart and eye. They stood on supreme heights. Ah, the delirious weeks of honeymoon! Soon they returned, and, after strange adventures, Settled at Balham by the end of June. Their money was in Can. Pacs. B. Debentures, And in Antofagastas. Still he went Cityward daily; still she did abide At home. And both were really quite content With work and social pleasures. Then they died. They left three children (besides George, who drank): The eldest Jane, who married Mr Bell, William, the head-clerk in the County Bank, And Henry, a stock-broker, doing well.