The empty bribe of yielding souls,
Which first betrays, and then controls.
'Tis true, it looks at distance fair;
But if we do approach,
The fruit of Sodom will impair,
And perish at a touch:
It being then in fancy less,
And we expect more than possess.
For by our pleasures we are cloy'd,
And so desire is done;
Or else, like rivers, they make wide
The channel where they run;
And either way true bliss destroys,
Making us narrow, or our joys.
We covet pleasure easily,
But ne'er true bliss possess ; For many things must make it be,
But one may make it less;
Nay, were our state as we could choose it, 'Twould be consum'd by fear to lose it.
What art thou, then, thou winged air,
More weak and swift than fame,
Whose next successor is Despair,
And its attendant Shame ?
Th' experienced prince then reason had,
Who said of pleasure-" It is mad."
LOVE and Death o' th' way once meeting,
Having past a friendly greeting,
Sleep their weary eyelids closing,
Lay them downe themselves reposing.
Love, whom divers cares molested,
Could not sleep, but whilst Death rested,
All in haste away he posts him,
But his haste full dearly costs him;
For it chanc'd that going to sleeping,
Both had giv'n their darts in keeping
Unto Night, who, Error's mother,
Blindly knowing not one from t'other,
Gave Love Death's, and ne'er perceiv'd it,
While as blindly Love received it.
Since which time their darts confounding,
Love now kills instead of wounding;
Death our hearts with sweetness filling,
Gently wounds, instead of killing.
I WISH I were where Helen lies,
Nicht and day on me she cries;
Oh, that I were where Helen lies,
On fair Kirconnel lee !
Oh, Helen fair, beyond compare,
I'll mak' a garland o' thy hair,
Shall bind my heart for ever mair,
Until the day I dee.
Oh, think na ye my heart was sair,
When my love dropt down and spak nae mair!
She sank, and swoon'd wi' mickle care,
On fair Kirconnel lee.
Curst be the heart that thocht the thocht,
And curst the hand that shot the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
And died to succour me.
As I went down the water-side,
None but my foe to be my guide,
None but my foe to be my guide,
On fair Kirconnel lee.
I lichtit doun, my sword did draw,
I hackit him in pieces sma',
I hackit him in pieces sma',
For her sake that died for me.
Oh, that I were where Helen lies!
Nicht and day on me she cries,
Out of my bed she bids me rise—
Oh, come, my love, to me!
Oh, Helen fair! Oh, Helen chaste!
If I were with thee I were blest,
Where thou lies low and takes thy rest,
On fair Kirconnel lee.
I wish my grave were growin' green,
A windin' sheet drawn ower my een,
And I in Helen's arms lying,
On fair Kirconnel lee.
I wish I were where Helen lies,
Nicht and day on me she cries;
And I am weary of the skies,
For her sake that died for me.
CAN you paint a thought? or number
Every fancy in a slumber?
Can you count soft minutes roving
From a dial's point by moving?
Can you grasp a sigh? or, lastly,
Rob a virgin's honour chastely?
No, oh no! yet you may
Sooner do both that and this,
This and that, and never miss,
Than by any praise display
Beauty's beauty; such a glory,
As beyond all fate, all story,
All arms, all arts,
All loves, all hearts,
Greater than those, or they,
Do, shall, and must obey.
"Tis a child of phansie's getting,
Brought up between hope and fear,
Fed with smiles, grown by uniting
Strong, and so kept by desire;
'Tis a perpetual vestal fire
Whose smoak like incense doth aspire
'Tis a soft magnetique stone
Attracting hearts by sympathie,
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