ALEXANDER BROME
But if that thou wilt have me love,
And it must be a she, The only argument can move
Is that she will love me.
The glories of your ladies be
But metaphors of things, And but resemble what we see
Each comnvjn object brings. Roses out-red their lips and cheeks,
Lilies their whiteness stain; What fool is he that shadows seeks
And may the substance gain? Then if thou'lt have me love a lass,
Let it be one that J s kind: Else I'm a servant to the glass
That J s with Canary lined.
��ANDREW MARVELL 364 An Horatian Ode
ufon Cromwell^s Return from Ireland
E forward youth that would appear Must now forsake his Muses dear, Nor in the shadows sing His numbers languishing.
'Tis time to leave the books in dust, And oil the unused armour's rust,
Removing from the wall
The corslet of the hall.
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