O, no! it is an ever-fixèd mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, If this be error, and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. William Shakespeare. XI. TRUE LOVE STILL THE SAME. No, no, fair heretic; it needs must be But an ill love in me, And worse for thee; For were it in my power To love thee now this hour More than I did the last, I would then so fall I might not love at all. Love that can flow, and can admit increase, True love is still the same; the torrid zones, It must not know. For love grown cold or hot The thing we have. For that's a flame would die, Then think I love more than I can express, And would love more, could I but love thee less. Sir John Suckling. XII. THE SIGNS OF LOVE. THE PERFECT LOVER. HONEST lover whosoever, If in all thy love there ever Was one wav'ring thought, if thy flame Know this, Thou lov'st amiss, And to love true, Thou must begin again, and love anew. If when she appears i' th' room, Thou dost not quake, and art struck dumb And in striving this to cover Dost not speak thy words twice over, Know this, Thou lov'st amiss, And to love true, Thou must begin again, and love anew. If fondly thou dost not mistake, Persuad'st thyself that jests are broken Thou lov'st amiss, And to love true, Thou must begin again, and love anew. If when thou appear'st to be within, Thou lov'st amiss, And to love true, Thou must begin again, and love anew. If when thy stomach calls to eat, Thou lov'st amiss, And to love true, Thou must begin again, and love anew. If by this thou dost discover That thou art no perfect lover, And, desiring to love true, Thou dost begin to love anew : Thou lov'st amiss, And to love true, Thou must begin again, and love anew. Sir John Suckling. XIII. THE SIGNS OF LOVE. CAN THIS BE LOVE? WHEN Delia on the plain appears, Whene'er she speaks, my ravished ear If she some other swain commend, When she is absent, I no more When fond of power, of beauty vain, George, Lord Lyttelton. XIV. THE LOVELINESS OF LOVE. LOVE, dearest lady, such as I would speak, |