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.
Had it any been but she,
And that very face,
There had been at least ere this
A dozen dozen in her place.
—John Suckling
Farewell
It is buried and done with,
The love that we knew:
Those cobwebs we spun with
Are beaded with dew.
I loved thee; I leave thee:
To love thee was pain:
I dare not believe thee
To love thee again.
Like spectres unshriven
Are the years that I lost;
To thee they were given
Without count of cost.
I cannot revive them
By penance or prayer;
Hell's tempest must drive them
Thro' turbulent air.
Farewell, and forget me;
For I, too, am free
From the shame that beset me,
The sorrow of thee.
—John Addington Symonds