1247 Love poems

My true-love hath my heart and I have his, By just exchange one for the other given: I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss; There never was a bargain better driven. His heart in me keeps me and him in one; My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: He loves my heart, for once it was his own; I cherish his because in me it bides. His heart his wound received from my sight; My heart was wounded with his wounded heart; For as from me on him his hurt did light, So still, methought, in me his hurt did smart: Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss, My true love hath my heart and I have his.

How sweet I roam'd from field to field, And tasted all the summer's pride, 'Till I the prince of love beheld, Who in the sunny beams did glide! He shew'd me lilies for my hair, And blushing roses for my brow; He led me through his gardens fair, Where all his golden pleasures grow. With sweet May dews my wings were wet, And Phoebus fir'd my vocal rage; He caught me in his silken net, And shut me in his golden cage. He loves to sit and hear me sing, Then, laughing, sports and plays with me; Then stretches out my golden wing, And mocks my loss of liberty.

I prithee spare me gentle boy, Press me no more for that slight toy, That foolish trifle of an heart; I swear it will not do its part, Though thou dost thine, employ’st thy pow’r and art. For through long custom it has known The little secrets, and is grown Sullen and wise, will have its will, And like old hawks pursues that still That makes least sport, flies only where’t can kill. Some youth that has not made his story, Will think perchance the pain’s the glory, And mannerly sit out love’s feast; I shall be carving of the best, Rudely call for the last course ’fore the rest. And oh when once that course is past, How short a time the feast doth last; Men rise away and scarce say grace, Or civilly once thank the face That did invite, but seek another place.

If you refuse me once, and think again, I will complain. You are deceiv’d, love is no work of art, It must be got and born, Not made and worn, By every one that hath a heart. Or do you think they more than once can die, Whom you deny? Who tell you of a thousand deaths a day, Like the old poets feign And tell the pain They met, but in the common way? Or do you think ’t too soon to yield, And quit the field? Nor is that right, they yield that first entreat; Once one may crave for love, But more would prove This heart too little, that too great. Oh that I were all soul, that I might prove For you as fit a love As you are for an angel; for I know, None but pure spirits are fit loves for you. You are all ethereal; there’s in you no dross, Nor any part that’s gross. Your coarsest part is like a curious lawn, The vestal relics for a covering drawn. Your other parts, part of the purest fire That e’er Heav’n did inspire, Makes every thought that is refin’d by it A quintessence of goodness and of wit. Thus have your raptures reach’d to that degree In love’s philosophy, That you can figure to yourself a fire Void of all heat, a love without desire. Nor in divinity do you go less; You think, and you profess, That souls may have a plenitude of joy, Although their bodies meet not to employ. But I must needs confess, I do not find The motions of my mind So purified as yet, but at the best My body claims in them an interest. I hold that perfect joy makes all our parts As joyful as our hearts. Our senses tell us, if we please not them, Our love is but a dotage or a dream. How shall we then agree? you may descend, But will not, to my end. I fain would tune my fancy to your key, But cannot reach to that obstructed way. There rests but this, that whilst we sorrow here, Our bodies may draw near; And, when no more their joys they can extend, Then let our souls begin where they did end.

(from As You Like It ) It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That o’er the green cornfield did pass, In springtime, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring

(from Twelfth Night ) O Mistress mine where are you roaming? O stay and hear, your true love's coming, That can sing both high and low. Trip no further pretty sweeting. Journeys end in lovers' meeting, Every wise man's son doth know. What is love, 'tis not hereafter, Present mirth, hath present laughter: What's to come, is still unsure. In delay there lies no plenty, Then come kiss me sweet and twenty: Youth's a stuff will not endure.

Ancient person, for whom I All the flattering youth defy, Long be it ere thou grow old, Aching, shaking, crazy, cold; But still continue as thou art, Ancient person of my heart. On thy withered lips and dry, Which like barren furrows lie, Brooding kisses I will pour Shall thy youthful [heat] restore (Such kind showers in autumn fall, And a second spring recall); Nor from thee will ever part, Ancient person of my heart. Thy nobler part, which but to name In our sex would be counted shame, By age’s frozen grasp possessed, From [his] ice shall be released, And soothed by my reviving hand, In former warmth and vigor stand. All a lover’s wish can reach For thy joy my love shall teach, And for they pleasure shall improve All that art can add to love. Yet still I love thee without art, Ancient person of my heart.

To watch you walk cross the room in your black corduroys is to see civilization start— the wish- whish-whisk of your strut is flint striking rock—the spark of a length of cord rubbed till smoke starts—you stir me like coal and for days smoulder. I am no more a Boy Scout and, besides, could never put you out—you keep me on all day like an iron, out of habit— you threaten, brick- house, to burn all this down. You leave me only a chimney.

I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys. As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters. As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste. He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love. His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me. I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes, and by the hinds of the field, that ye stir not up, nor awake my love, till he please. The voice of my beloved! behold, he cometh leaping upon the mountains, skipping upon the hills. My beloved is like a roe or a young hart: behold, he standeth behind our wall, he looketh forth at the windows, showing himself through the lattice. My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land: The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away. O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs, let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely. Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines; for our vines have tender grapes. My beloved is mine, and I am his: he feedeth among the lilies. Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, turn, my beloved, and be thou like a roe or a young hart upon the mountains of Bether.

Let me call a ghost, Love, so it be little: In December we took No thought for the weather. Whom now shall I thank For this wealth of water? Your heart loves harbors Where I am a stranger. Where was it we lay Needing no other Twelve days and twelve nights In each other’s eyes? Or was it at Babel And the days too small We spoke our own tongue Needing no other? If a seed grow green Set a stone upon it That it learn thereby Holy charity. If you must smile Always on that other, Cut me from ear to ear And we all smile together.