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. _Colonel Lovelace_ CXXIX _ENCOURAGEMENTS TO A LOVER_ Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prythee, why so pale? Will, if looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale? Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prythee, why so mute? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do't? Prythee, why so mute? Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move, This cannot take her; If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her: The D--l take her! _Sir J. Suckling_ CXXX _A SUPPLICATION_ Awake, awake, my Lyre! And tell thy silent master's humble tale In sounds that may prevail; Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire: Though so exalted she And I so lowly be Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony. Hark, how the strings awake! And, though the moving hand approach not near, Themselves with awful fear A kind of numerous trembling make. Now all thy forces try; Now all thy charms apply; Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye. Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure Is useless here, since thou art only found To cure, but not to wound, And she to wound, but not to cure. Too weak too wilt thou prove My passion to remove; Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to Love. Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre! For thou canst never tell my humble tale In sounds that will prevail, Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire; All thy vain mirth lay by, Bid thy strings silent lie, Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die. _A. Cowley_ CXXXI _THE MANLY HEART_ Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman's fair? Or make pale my cheeks with care 'Cause another's rosy are? Be she fairer than the day Or the flowery meads in May-- If she think not well of me What care I how fair she be?