Part 4

'Tis cruel to prolong a pain; And to defer a joy, Believe me, gentle Celemene, Offends the winged boy.

An hundred thousand oaths your fears, Perhaps, would not remove; And if I gazed a thousand years, I could no deeper love.

Charles Sedley [1639?-1710]

THE VINE From "Sunday Up the River"

The wine of Love is music, And the feast of Love is song: And when Love sits down to the banquet, Love sits long:

Sits long and arises drunken, But not with the feast and the wine; He reeleth with his own heart, That great, rich Vine.

James Thomson [1834-1882]

SONG

Fain would I change that note To which fond love hath charmed me, Long, long to sing by rote, Fancying that that harmed me: Yet when this thought doth come, - Love is the perfect sum Of all delight. I have no other choice Either for pen or voice To sing or write.

O love, they wrong thee much That say thy sweet is bitter When thy rich fruit is such As nothing can be sweeter. Fair house of joy and bliss Where truest pleasure is, I do adore thee: I know thee what thou art, I serve thee with my heart, And fall before thee.

Unknown

CUPID STUNG

Cupid once upon a bed Of roses laid his weary head; Luckless urchin, not to see Within the leaves a slumbering bee. The bee awaked - with anger wild The bee awaked, and stung the child. Loud and piteous are his cries; To Venus quick he runs, he flies; "Oh Mother! I am wounded through - I die with pain - in sooth I do! Stung by some little angry thing, Some serpent on a tiny wing - A bee it was - for once, I know, I heard a rustic call it so." Thus he spoke, and she the while Heard him with a soothing smile; Then said, "My infant, if so much Thou feel the little wild bee's touch, How must the heart, ah, Cupid! be, The hapless heart that's stung by thee!"

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

CUPID DROWNED

T'other day, as I was twining Roses, for a crown to dine in, What, of all things, 'mid the heap, Should I light on, fast asleep, But the little desperate elf, The tiny traitor, Love, himself! By the wings I picked him up Like a bee, and in a cup Of my wine I plunged and sank him, Then what d'ye think I did? - I drank him. Faith, I thought him dead. Not he! There he lives with ten-fold glee; And now this moment with his wings I feel him tickling my heart-strings.

Leigh Hunt [1784-1859]

SONG From "The Heir of Vironi"

Oh! say not woman's love is bought With vain and empty treasure. Oh! say not woman's heart is caught By every idle pleasure. When first her gentle bosom knows Love's flame, it wanders never; Deep in her heart the passion glows, She loves, and loves for ever.

Oh! say not woman's false as fair, That, like the bee, she ranges, Still seeking flowers more sweet and rare, As fickle fancy changes. Ah no! the love that first can warm Will leave her bosom never; No second passion e'er can charm, She loves, and loves for ever.

Isaac Pocock [1782-1835]

"IN THE DAYS OF OLD" From "Crotchet Castle"

In the days of old Lovers felt true passion, Deeming years of sorrow By a smile repaid: Now the charms of gold, Spells of pride and fashion, Bid them say Good-morrow To the best-loved Maid.

Through the forests wild, O'er the mountains lonely, They were never weary Honor to pursue: If the damsel smiled Once in seven years only, All their wanderings dreary Ample guerdon knew.

Now one day's caprice Weighs down years of smiling, Youthful hearts are rovers, Love is bought and sold. Fortune's gifts may cease, Love is less beguiling: Wiser were the lovers In the days of old.

Thomas Love Peacock [1785-1866]

SONG

How delicious is the winning Of a kiss at Love's beginning, When two mutual hearts are sighing For the knot there's no untying!