On a Bracelet of her Hair.
KNOW, Sylvia, that your curious twist,
Which charms my heart and decks my wrist,
On which I gaze so oft and pay
Thousands of kisses every day,
Is not so much my love and care
'Cause tis composed of your hair;
And yet it truly may be said
Sun-beams are woven of coarser thread;
Nor do I therefore like 't so much
Because I find the art is such
That if Arachne, when she strove
With Pallas, the like web had wove,
She had her skill and wrath o'ercome
And gain'd a triumph, not a doom:
No, Sylvia, I the truth will tell;
I do not therefore like 't so well
Because it is thy hair and art,
But that it is thy gift, dear heart.
From The New Academy of Compliments, 1671.
I HAVE followed thee a year at least,
And never stopped myself to rest,
But yet can thee o'ertake no more
Than this day can the day that went before.
In this our fortunes equal prove
To stars which govern them above;
Our stars they move for ever round
With the same distance still betwixt them found.
In vain, alas! in vain I strive
The wheel of fate faster to drive,
Since if around it swifter fly,
She in it mends her pace as much as I.
Hearts by Love strangely shuffled are,
That there can never meet a pair;
Tamelier than worms are lovers slain;
The wounded heart ne'er turns to wound again.
From Tixall Poetry,[72] 1813.
To Flora.