GATHER ye rose-buds while ye may,été Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun, The higher he’s a getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he’s to setting.
That age is best, which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time, And while you may, go marry: For having lost but once your prime, You may forever tarry. _Robert Herrick._
WHEN I tie about thy wrist, Julia, this my silken twist, For what other reason is’t
But to show thee how, in part, Thou my pretty captive art? —But thy bond-slave is my heart.
’Tis but silk that bindeth thee, Snap the thread, and thou art free; But ’tis otherwise with me:
I am bound, and fast bound, so That from thee I cannot go: If I could I would not so! _Robert Herrick._
I DARE not ask a kisse, I dare not beg a smile, Lest having that or this, I might grow proud the while. No, no, the utmost share Of my desire shall be Only to kisse the aire That lately kissed thee. _Anonymous._
LOVE me not for comely grace, For my pleasing eye or face, Nor for any outward part, No, nor for my constant heart; For those may fail or turn to ill, So thou and I shall sever: Keep therefore a true woman’s eye, And love me still, but know not why. So hast thou the same reason still To dote upon me ever. _Anonymous._
THAT which her slender waist confined, Shall now my joyful temples bind; No monarch but would give his crown His arms might do what this has done.
It was my Heaven’s extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely dear. My joy, my grief, my hope, my love Did all within this circle move!
A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that’s good, and all that’s fair; Give me but what this riband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round. _Edmund Waller._
I PR’YTHEE send me back my heart, Since I can not have thine; For if from yours you will not part, Why then should’st thou have mine?
Yet now I think on’t, let it lie; To find it, were in vain: For thou’st a thief in either eye Would steal it back again.
Why should two hearts in one breast lie, And yet not lodge together? O love! where is thy sympathy, If thus our breasts you sever?