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I'll count your power not worth a pin ; Alas! what hereby shall I win

If he gainsay me ?

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love ?
Or, her well-deservings known,
Make me quite forget mine own ?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may merit name of best,

If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be ?

What if I beat the wanton boy

With many a rod ?
He will repay me with annoy,

Because a god ;
Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee,
O Cupid ! so thou pity me,
Spare not, but play thee.

THOMAS LODGE.

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do
That without them dare to woo;

And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?

CUPID AND CAMPASPE.

Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair:
If she love me, this believe, ---
I will die ere she shall grieve.
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go ;

For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be ?

Cupid and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses, --- Cupid paid ;
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows, ---
Loses them too ; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on 's cheek (but none knows how);
With these the crystal on his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin, -
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes ;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! hath she done this to thee ?
What shall, alas ! become of me?

GEORGE WITHER.

ROSALIND'S COMPLAINT.

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Each from the other bore away

A portion of his darts.

And that explains the reason why,

Despite the gods above,
The young are often doomed to die,
The old to fall in love!

JOHN GODFREY SAXE.

| Inhale its delicate expressions Of balm and pea, and its confessions Made with as sweet a maiden's blush As ever morn bedewed on bush : ('T is in reply to one of ours, Made of the most convincing flowers.)

LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN.

LET not woman e'er complain

Of inconstancy in love ; Let not woman e'er complain

Fickle man is apt to rove ; Look abroad through Nature's range, Nature's mighty law is change ; Ladies, would it not be strange

Man should then a monster prove ?

Then, after we have kissed its wit,
And heart, in water putting it
(To keep its remarks fresh), go round
Our little eloquent plot of ground,
And with enchanted hands compose
Our answer, -- all of lily and rose,
Of tuberose and of violet,
And little darling (mignonette);
Of look at me and call me to you
(Words that, while they greet, go through you);
Of thoughts, of flames, forget-one-not,
Bridewort, -— in short, the whole blest lot
Of vouchers for a lifelong kiss, -
And literally, breathing bliss !

LEIGH HUNT.

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Mark the winds, and mark the skies ;

Ocean's ebb and ocean's flow;
Sun and moon but set to rise,

Round and round the seasons go.
Why then ask of silly man,
To oppose great Nature's plan?
We'll be constant while we can, --
You can be no more, you know.

ROBERT BURNS.

EVERY wedding, says the proverb,

Makes another, soon or late ; Never yet was any marriage

Entered in the book of fate, But the names were also written

Of the patient pair that wait.

LOVE-LETTERS MADE OF FLOWERS.

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An exquisite invention this,
Worthy of Love's most honeyed kiss, ---
This art of writing billet-doux
In buds, and odors, and bright hues !
In saying all one feels and thinks
In clever daffodils and pinks;
In puns of tulips ; and in phrases,
Charming for their truth, of daisies ;
Uttering, as well as silence may,
The sweetest words the sweetest way.
How fit too for the lady's bosom!
The place where billet-doux repose 'em.
What delight in some sweet spot
Combining love with garden plot,
At once to cultivate one's flowers
And one's epistolary powers !
Growing one's own choice words and fancies
In orange tubs, and beds of pansies ;
One's sighs, and passionate declarations,
In odorous rhetoric of carnations;
Seeing how far one's stocks will reach,
Taking due care one's flowers of speech
To guard from blight as well as bathos,
And watering every day one's pathos !
A letter comes, just gathered. We
Dote on its tender brilliancy,

Three there were that stood beside her ;

One was dark, and one was fair; But nor fair nor dark the other,

Save her Arab eyes and hair ; Neither dark nor fair I call her,

Yet she was the fairest there.

While her groomsman - shall I own it ?

Yes, to thee, and only thee ---Gazed upon this dark-eyed maiden

Who was fairest of the three, Thus he thought: “How blest the bridal

Where the bride were such as she !"

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