Dear love, prolong.

The summer days go by,
Cease that sweet rain,
Those angry crystals dry,
Be friends again.

So short a time at best
Is ours to play,
Come, take me to thy breast--
Ah! that's the way.




LOVERS

Why should I ask perfection of thee, sweet,
That have so little of mine own to bring?
That thou art beautiful from head to feet--
Is that, beloved, such a little thing,
That I should ask more of thee, and should fling
Thy largesse from me, in a world like this,
O generous giver of thy perfect kiss?

Thou gavest me thy lips, thine eyes, thine hair;
I brought thee worship--was it not thy due?
If thou art cruel--still art thou not fair?
Roses thou gavest--shalt thou not bring rue?
Alas! have I not brought thee sorrow too?