Ah, my heart, is that the way? Are these the beams that rule thy day? Thou know’st a face in whose each look Beauty lays ope Love’s fortune-book, On whose fair revolutions wait The obsequious motions of Love’s fate. Ah, my heart! her eyes and she Have taught thee new astrology. Howe’er Love’s native hours were set, Whatever starry synod met, ’Tis in the mercy of her eye, If poor Love shall live or die. If those sharp rays, putting on Points of death, bid Love be gone; Though the heavens in council sat To crown an uncontrolled fate; Though their best aspects twined upon The kindest constellation, Cast amorous glances on his birth, And whispered the confederate earth To pave his paths with all the good That warms the bed of youth and blood:— Love has no plea against her eye; Beauty frowns, and Love must die. But if her milder influence move, And gild the hopes of humble Love;— Though heaven’s inauspicious eye Lay black on Love’s nativity; Though every diamond in Jove’s crown Fixed his forehead to a frown;— Her eye a strong appeal can give, Beauty smiles, and Love shall live. O, if Love shall live, O where, But in her eye, or in her ear, In her breast, or in her breath, Shall I hide poor Love from death? For in the life aught else can give, Love shall die, although he live. Or, if Love shall die, O where, But in her eye, or in her ear, In her breath, or in her breast, Shall I build his funeral nest? While Love shall thus entombed lie, Love shall live, although he die! ON MR. G. HERBERT’S BOOK _Entitled_, ‘_The Temple of Sacred Poems_,’ _sent to a Gentlewoman_ KNOW you, fair, on what you look? Divinest love lies in this book, Expecting fire from your eyes, To kindle this his sacrifice. When your hands untie these strings, Think you’ve an angel by the wings; One that gladly will be nigh To wait upon each morning sigh, To flutter in the balmy air Of your well perfumed prayer. These white plumes of his he’ll lend you, Which every day to heaven will send you, To take acquaintance of the sphere, And all the smooth-faced kindred there. And though Herbert’s name do owe These devotions, fairest, know That while I lay them on the shrine Of your white hand, they are mine. WISHES TO HIS SUPPOSED MISTRESS WHOE’ER she be, That not impossible She That shall command my heart and me: Where’er she he, Locked up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny: Till that ripe birth Of studied Fate stand forth, And teach her fair steps tread our earth: Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to shine: Meet you her, my Wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses, And be ye called, my absent kisses. I wish her beauty That owes not all its duty To gaudy tire, or glist’ring shoe-tie.