TOO LATE!
Too late, alas! I must confess,
You need not arts to move me;
Such charms by nature you possess,
'Twere madness not to love ye.
Then spare a heart you may surprise,
And give my tongue the glory
To boast, though my unfaithful eyes
Betray a tender story.
John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester.
MY MISTRESS' HEART.
My dear mistress has a heart
Soft as those kind looks she gave me;
When with Love's resistless art,
And her eyes, she did enslave me.
But her constancy's so weak,
She's so wild and apt to wander;
That my jealous heart would break
Should we live one day asunder.
Melting joys about her move,
Killing pleasures, wounding blisses;
She can dress her eyes in love,
And her lips can arm with kisses.
Angels listen when she speaks,
She's my delight, all mankind wonder;
But my jealous heart would break
Should we live one day asunder.
John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester.