Love not too much. But how,
When thou hast made me such,
And dost thy gifts bestow,
How can I love too much?
Though I must fear to lose,
And drown my joy in care,
With all its thorns I choose
The path of love and prayer.
Would that you were alive today, Catullus!
Truth ’ tis, there is a filthy skunk amongst us,
A rank musk-idiot, the filthiest skunk,
Of no least sorry use on earth, but only
Fit in fancy to justify the outlay
Of your most horrible vocabulary.
My Muse, all innocent as Eve in Eden,
Would yet wear any skins of old pollution
Rather than celebrate the name detested.
Ev’ n now might he rejoice at our attention,
Guess'd he this little ode were aiming at him.
O! were you but alive again, Catullus!
Forbear, bold youth, all’ s Heaven here,
And what you do aver,
To others, courtship may appear,
’ Tis sacriledge to her.
She is a publick deity,
And were’ t not very odd
She should depose her self to be
A pretty household god?
First make the sun in private shine,
And bid the world adieu,
That so he may his beams confine
In complement to you.
Nature, which is the vast creation’ s soul,
That steady curious agent in the whole,
The art of Heaven, the order of this frame,
Is only number in another name.
For as some king conqu’ ring what was his own,
Hath choice of several titles to his crown;
So harmony on this score now, that then,
Yet still is all that takes and governs men.
Beauty is but composure, and we find
Content is but the concord of the mind,
Friendship the unison of well-turned hearts,
Honor the chorus of the noblest parts,
’ Tis now since I began to die
Four months, yet still I gasping live;
Wrapp’ d up in sorrow do I lie,
Hoping, yet doubting a reprieve.
Adam from Paradise expell’ d
Just such a wretched being held.
’ Tis not thy love I fear to lose,
That will in spite of absence hold;
But ’ tis the benefit and use
Is lost, as in imprison’ d gold:
Which though the sum be ne’ er so great,
Enriches nothing but conceit.
One of her hands one of her cheeks lay under,
Cosening the pillow of a lawful kiss,
Which therefore swell’ d, and seem’ d to part asunder,
As angry to be robb’ d of such a bliss!
The one look’ d pale and for revenge did long,
While t’ other blush’ d, ’ cause it had done the wrong.
Out upon it, I have lov’ d
Three whole days together;
And am like to love three more,
If it prove fair weather.
Time shall moult away his wings,
Ere he shall discover
In the whole wide world again
Such a constant lover.
But the spite on’ t is, no praise
Is due at all to me;
Love with me had made no stays,
Had it any been but she.
Why so pale and wan fond lover?
Prithee why so pale?
Will, when looking well can’ t move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prithee why so pale?
Why so dull and mute young sinner?
Prithee why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can’ t win her,
Saying nothing do’ t?
Prithee why so mute?
DIALOGUE
T. C. J. S.
Thom.
Didst thou not find the place inspired,
And flowers, as if they had desired
No other sun, start from their beds,
And for a sight steal out their heads?
Heardst thou not music when she talked?
And didst not find that as she walked
She threw rare perfumes all about,
Such as bean-blossoms newly out,
Or chafèd spices give? —
J. S.
Although a tide turns in the trees
the moon doesn't turn the leaves,
though chimneys smoke and blue concedes
to bluer home-time dark.
Though restless leaves submerge the park
in yellow shallows, ankle-deep,
and through each tree the moon shows, halved
or quartered or complete,
