My light thou art--without thy glorious sight My eyes are darken'd with eternal night. My Love, thou art my way, my life, my light. Thou art my way; I wander if thou fly. Thou art my light; if hid, how blind am I! Thou art my life; if thou withdraw'st, I die. My eyes are dark and blind, I cannot see: To whom or whither should my darkness flee, But to that light?--and who 's that light but thee? If I have lost my path, dear lover, say, Shall I still wander in a doubtful way? Love, shall a lamb of Israel's sheepfold stray? My path is lost, my wandering steps do stray; I cannot go, nor can I safely stay; Whom should I seek but thee, my path, my way? And yet thou turn'st thy face away and fly'st me! And yet I sue for grace and thou deny'st me! Speak, art thou angry, Love, or only try'st me? Thou art the pilgrim's path, the blind man's eye, The dead man's life. On thee my hopes rely: If I but them remove, I surely die. Dissolve thy sunbeams, close thy wings and stay! See, see how I am blind, and dead, and stray! --O thou that art my life, my light, my way! Then work thy will! If passion bid me flee, My reason shall obey, my wings shall be Stretch'd out no farther than from me to thee! John Sheffield, Duke of Buckinghamshire. 1649-1720 417. The Reconcilement COME, let us now resolve at last To live and love in quiet; We'll tie the knot so very fast That Time shall ne'er untie it. The truest joys they seldom prove Who free from quarrels live: 'Tis the most tender part of love Each other to forgive. When least I seem'd concern'd, I took No pleasure nor no rest; And when I feign'd an angry look, Alas! I loved you best. Own but the same to me--you'll find How blest will be our fate. O to be happy--to be kind-- Sure never is too late! John Sheffield, Duke of Buckinghamshire. 1649-1720 418. On One who died discovering her Kindness SOME vex their souls with jealous pain, While others sigh for cold disdain: Love's various slaves we daily see-- Yet happy all compared with me! Of all mankind I loved the best A nymph so far above the rest That we outshined the Blest above; In beauty she, as I in love. And therefore They, who could not bear To be outdone by mortals here, Among themselves have placed her now, And left me wretched here below. All other fate I could have borne, And even endured her very scorn; But oh! thus all at once to find That dread account--both dead and kind! What heart can hold? If yet I live, 'Tis but to show how much I grieve. Thomas Otway. 1652-1685 419. The Enchantment I DID but look and love awhile, 'Twas but for one half-hour; Then to resist I had no will, And now I have no power. To sigh and wish is all my ease; Sighs which do heat impart Enough to melt the coldest ice, Yet cannot warm your heart. O would your pity give my heart One corner of your breast, 'Twould learn of yours the winning art, And quickly steal the rest. John Oldham. 1653-1683 420. A Quiet Soul