To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars
Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of your chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore;
I could not love thee, dear, so much
Loved I not honour more!
—Richard Lovelace
A Japanese Love Song
The young moon is white,
But the willows are blue:
Your small lips are red,
But the great clouds are gray:
The waves are so many
That whisper to you;
But my love is only
One flight of spray.
The bright drops are many,
The dark wave is one:
The dark wave subsides,
And the bright sea remains!
And wherever, O singing
Maid, you may run,
You are one with the world
For all your pains.
Tho' the great skies are dark,
And your small feet are white,
Tho' your wide eyes are blue
And the closed poppies red,
Tho' the kisses are many,
That colour the night,
They are linked like pearls
On one golden thread.
Were the gray clouds not made
For the red of your mouth;
The ages for flight
Of the butterfly years;
The sweet of the peach
For the pale lips of drouth,
The sunlight of smiles
For the shadow of tears?