c. 1620

_6. Song_

Love, a child, is ever crying; Please him, and he straight is flying; Give him, he the more is craving, Never satisfied with having.

His desires have no measure; Endless folly is his treasure; What he promiseth he breaketh; Trust not one word that he speaketh.

He vows nothing but false matter; And to cozen you will flatter; Let him gain the hand, he’ll leave you And still glory to deceive you.

He will triumph in your wailing; And yet cause be of your failing: These his virtues are, and slighter Are his gifts, his favours lighter.

Feathers are as firm in staying; Wolves no fiercer in their preying; As a child then, leave him crying; Nor seek him so given to flying.

ANNE BRADSTREET

1612-1672

_7. Dedication: ‘To My Dear Children’_

This Book by Any yet unread, I leave for you when I am dead, That, being gone, here you may find What was your liveing mother’s mind. Make use of what I leave in Love And God shall blesse you from above.

_8. Epitaph for Queen Elizabeth_

Here sleeps the Queen; this is the royal bed, O’ th’ damask rose, sprung from the white and red, Whose sweet perfume fills the all-filling air, This Rose is wither’d, once so lovely fair; On neither tree did grow such rose before, The greater was our gain, our loss the more.

MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE

1624-1674

_9. Love and Poetry_

O Love, how thou art tired out with rhyme! Thou art a tree whereon all poets clime; And from thy branches every one takes some Of thy sweet fruit, which Fancy feeds upon. But now thy tree is left so bare and poor, That they can scarcely gather one plumb more.

ANONYMOUS

1652

_10. To My Husband_

When from the world I shall be ta’en, And from earth’s necessary pain, Then let no blacks be worn for me, Not in a ring, my dear, by thee. But this bright diamond, let it be Worn in rememberance of me. And when it sparkles in your eye, Think ’tis my shadow passeth by. For why, more bright you shall me see, Than that or any gem can be. Dress not the house with sable weed, As if there were some dismal deed Acted to be when I am gone, There is no cause for me to mourn. And let no badge of herald be The sign of my antiquity. It was my glory I did spring From heaven’s eternal powerful King: To his bright palace heir am I, It is his promise, he’ll not lie. By my dear brother pray lay me, It was a promise made by thee, And now I must bid thee adieu, For I’m a parting now from you.

ANN COLLINS