The air which thy smooth voice doth break, Into my soul like lightning flies; My life retires while thou dost speak, And thy soft breath its room supplies. Lost in this pleasing ecstasy, I join my trembling lips to thine, And back receive that life from thee Which I so gladly did resign. Forbear, Platonic fools! t' inquire What numbers do the soul compose; No harmony can life inspire But that which from these accents flows. Thomas Stanley. LADIES' CONQUERING EYES. Ladies, though to your conquering eyes Love owes its chiefest victories, And borrows those bright arms from you With which he does the world subdue; Yet you yourselves are not above The empire nor the griefs of love. Then rack not lovers with disdain, Lest love on you revenge their pain: You are not free because you're fair, The Boy did not his mother spare: Though beauty be a killing dart, It is no armour for the heart. George Etherege. DORINDA. Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes, United, cast too fierce a light, Which blazes high, but quickly dies, Pains not the heart, but hurts the sight. Love is a calmer, gentler joy, Smooth are his looks and soft his pace; Her Cupid is a blackguard boy That runs his link full in your face. Charles Sackville. CELIA AND SYLVIA. Celia is cruel. Sylvia, thou, I must confess art kind; But in her cruelty, I vow, I more repose can find. For, oh! thy fancy at all games does fly, Fond of address, and willing to comply. Thus he that loves must be undone, Each way on rocks we fall; Either you will be kind to none, Or worse, be kind to all. Vain are our hopes, and endless is our care; We must be jealous, or we must despair. Robert Gould. TRUE LOVE. Love, when 'tis true, needs not the aid Of sighs, nor aches, to make it known, And to convince the cruellest maid, Lovers should use their love alone. Into their very looks 'twill steal, And he that most would hide his flame, Does in that case his pain reveal: Silence itself can love proclaim. Sir Charles Sedley. TOO LATE! Too late, alas! I must confess, You need not arts to move me; Such charms by nature you possess, 'Twere madness not to love ye. Then spare a heart you may surprise, And give my tongue the glory To boast, though my unfaithful eyes Betray a tender story. John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. MY MISTRESS' HEART. My dear mistress has a heart Soft as those kind looks she gave me; When with Love's resistless art, And her eyes, she did enslave me. But her constancy's so weak, She's so wild and apt to wander; That my jealous heart would break Should we live one day asunder.