[_Song._] Sir Egerton thought this (which, by the way, Lovelace may have seen, or _vice versa_) 'a very elegant little song, with all the harmony of _modern_ rhythm'. One might perhaps substitute 'with more of the harmony of _contemporary_ rhythm than Stanley always attains'. It is certainly much better than _The Cure_. The bracketed stanza was dropped in _1651_, but it seemed better to restore it thus in text than to degrade it hither. One or two extremely unimportant misprints occur in one or other version, but are not worth noting.] _The Sick Lover._ GUARINI. My sickly breath Wastes in a double flame; Whilst Love and Death To my poor life lay claim; The fever, in whose heat I melt, By her that causeth it not felt. Thou who alone Canst, yet wilt grant no ease, Why slight'st thou one To feed a new disease? 10 Unequal fair! the heart is thine; Ah, why then should the pain be mine? [_The Sick Lover._] Not a great thing. In l. 6, Miss Guiney thinks 'it', which is in all texts, should be 'is'. But 'it' is wanted and 'is' is not. 'The fever not [_being_] felt' is no excessively 'absolute' construction.] _Song._ Celinda, by what potent art Or unresisted charm, Dost thou thine ear and frozen heart Against my passion arm? Or by what hidden influence Of powers in one combin'd, Dost thou rob Love of either sense, Made deaf as well as blind? Sure thou, as friends, united hast Two distant Deities; 10 And scorn within thy heart hast plac'd, And love within thine eyes. Or those soft fetters of thy hair, A bondage that disdains All liberty, do guard thine ear Free from all other chains. Then my complaint how canst thou hear, Or I this passion fly, Since thou imprison'd hast thine ear, And not confin'd thine eye? 20 [_Song--Celinda, &c._] Again, mere commonplace common measure. '_Those_ soft fetters of thy hair' (l. 13) is at least as good as 'mobled queen', but otherwise the phrase rather sinks to the measure. 'friends' (l. 9) is misprinted 'friend' in _1647_, and Sir Egerton has mispunctuated 'friends united'.] _Song._ Fool, take up thy shaft again; If thy store Thou profusely spend in vain, Who can furnish thee with more? Throw not then away thy darts On impenetrable hearts. Think not thy pale flame can warm Into tears, Or dissolve the snowy charm Which her frozen bosom wears, 10 That expos'd, unmelted lies To the bright suns of her eyes.