Cogas amantem irasci, amare si velis.
You must make a lover angry if you wish him to love.
Turn, ut adsolet in amore et ira, jurgia, preces, exprobratio, satisfaetio.
Then there is the usual scene when lovers are excited with each other, quarrels, entreaties, reproaches, and then fondling reconcilement.
When gloaming treads the heels of day
And birds sit cowering on the spray,
Along the flowery hedge I stray,
To meet mine ain dear somebody.
I love thee, I love but thee,
With a love that shall not die
Till the sun grows cold,
And the stars are old,
And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!
Love better is than Fame.
Love's history, as Life's, is ended not
By marriage.
For love's humility is Love's true pride.
And on her lover's arm she leant,
And round her waist she felt it fold,
And far across the hills they went
In that new world which is the old.
Love lieth deep; Love dwells not in lip-depths.
Where love could walk with banish'd Hope no more.
Love's arms were wreathed about the neck of Hope,
And Hope kiss'd Love, and Love drew in her breath
In that close kiss and drank her whisper'd tales.
They said that Love would die when Hope was gone.
And Love mourn'd long, and sorrow'd after Hope;
At last she sought out Memory, and they trod
The same old paths where Love had walked with Hope,
And Memory fed the soul of Love with tears.
'Tis better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all.
For love reflects the thing beloved.
Love's too precious to be lost,
A little grain shall not be spilt.
I loved you, and my love had no return,
And therefore my true love has been my death.
Shall it not be scom to me to harp on such a moulder'd string?
I am shamed through all my nature to have lov'd so slight a thing.
There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near; "
And the white rose weeps, "She is late; "
The larkspur listens, "I hear; I hear; "
And the lily whispers, "I wait."
She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthly bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.
Love is hurt with jar and fret;
Love is made a vague regret.
It is best to love wisely, no doubt; but to love foolishly is better than not to be able to love at all.
Werther had a love for Charlotte,
Such as words could never utter;
Would you know how first he met her?
She was cutting bread and butter.
Like to a wind-blown sapling grow I from
The cliff, Sweet, of your skyward-jetting soul,—
Shook by all gusts that sweep it, overcome
By all its clouds incumbent; O be true
To your soul, dearest, as my life to you!
For if that soil grow sterile, then the whole
Of me must shrivel, from the topmost shoot
Of climbing poesy, and my life, killed through,
Dry down and perish to the foodless root.
