But I'll not sigh one blast or gale To swell my sail, Or pay a tear to 'suage The foaming blue god's rage; For whether he will let me pass Or no, I'm still as happy as I was. Though seas and land betwixt us both, Our faith and troth, Like separated souls, All time and space controls: Above the highest sphere we meet Unseen, unknown; and greet as Angels greet. So then we do anticipate Our after-fate, And are alive i' the skies, If thus our lips and eyes Can speak like spirits unconfined In Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind. Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658 345. Gratiana Dancing SHE beat the happy pavement-- By such a star made firmament, Which now no more the roof envìes! But swells up high, with Atlas even, Bearing the brighter nobler heaven, And, in her, all the deities. Each step trod out a Lover's thought, And the ambitious hopes he brought Chain'd to her brave feet with such arts, Such sweet command and gentle awe, As, when she ceased, we sighing saw The floor lay paved with broken hearts. Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658 346. To Amarantha, that she would dishevel her Hair AMARANTHA sweet and fair, Ah, braid no more that shining hair! As my curious hand or eye Hovering round thee, let it fly! Let it fly as unconfined As its calm ravisher the wind, Who hath left his darling, th' East, To wanton o'er that spicy nest. Every tress must be confest, But neatly tangled at the best; Like a clew of golden thread Most excellently ravelled. Do not then wind up that light In ribbands, and o'ercloud in night, Like the Sun in 's early ray; But shake your head, and scatter day! Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658 347. The Grasshopper O THOU that swing'st upon the waving hair Of some well-filled oaten beard, Drunk every night with a delicious tear Dropt thee from heaven, where thou wert rear'd! The joys of earth and air are thine entire, That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly; And when thy poppy works, thou dost retire To thy carved acorn-bed to lie. Up with the day, the Sun thou welcom'st then, Sport'st in the gilt plaits of his beams, And all these merry days mak'st merry men, Thyself, and melancholy streams. Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658 348. To Althea, from Prison WHEN Love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair And fetter'd to her eye, The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty. When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses bound, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free-- Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty.