I bring ye love. QUES. What will love do? ANS. Like, and dislike ye. I bring ye love. QUES. What will love do? ANS. Stroke ye, to strike ye. I bring ye love. QUES. What will love do? ANS. Love will be-fool ye. I bring ye love. QUES. What will love do? ANS. Heat ye, to cool ye. I bring ye love. QUES. What will love do? ANS. Love, gifts will send ye. I bring ye love. QUES. What will love do? ANS. Stock ye, to spend ye. I bring ye love. QUES. What will love do? ANS. Love will fulfil ye. I bring ye love. QUES. What will love do? ANS. Kiss ye, to kill ye. 215. LOVERS HOW THEY COME AND PART A Gyges ring they bear about them still, To be, and not seen when and where they will; They tread on clouds, and though they sometimes fall, They fall like dew, and make no noise at all: So silently they one to th' other come, As colours steal into the pear or plum, And air-like, leave no pression to be seen Where'er they met, or parting place has been. 216. THE KISS: A DIALOGUE 1 Among thy fancies, tell me this, What is the thing we call a kiss? 2 I shall resolve ye what it is:-- It is a creature born and bred Between the lips, all cherry-red, By love and warm desires fed,-- CHOR. And makes more soft the bridal bed. 2 It is an active flame, that flies First to the babies of the eyes, And charms them there with lullabies,-- CHOR. And stills the bride, too, when she cries. 2 Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear, It frisks and flies, now here, now there: 'Tis now far off, and then 'tis near,-- CHOR. And here, and there, and every where. 1 Has it a speaking virtue? 2 Yes. 1 How speaks it, say? 2 Do you but this,-- Part your join'd lips, then speaks your kiss; CHOR. And this Love's sweetest language is. 1 Has it a body? 2 Ay, and wings, With thousand rare encolourings; And as it flies, it gently sings-- CHOR. Love honey yields, but never stings. 217. COMFORT TO A YOUTH THAT HAD LOST HIS LOVE What needs complaints, When she a place Has with the race Of saints? In endless mirth, She thinks not on What's said or done In earth: She sees no tears, Or any tone Of thy deep groan She hears; Nor does she mind, Or think on't now, That ever thou Wast kind:-- But changed above, She likes not there, As she did here, Thy love. --Forbear, therefore, And lull asleep Thy woes, and weep No more. 218. ORPHEUS