Romantic Love

A pair of star-cross’d lovers.

The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve; Lovers, to bed; ’tis almost fairy time.

And the imperial votaress passed on, In maiden meditation, fancy-free. Yet mark’d I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love’s wound, And maidens call it, Love-in-idleness.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is wing’d Cupid painted blind. 9

Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth.

He is the half part of a blessed man, Left to be finished by such a she; And she a fair divided excellence, Whose fullness of perfection lies in him.

But love, first learned in a lady’s eyes, Lives not alone immured in the brain.

Julia: They do not love that do not show their love. Lucetta: O! they love least that let men know their love.

Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks, Shall win my love.

Was ever woman in this humor woo’d? Was ever woman in this humor won?

Look, how my ring encompasseth thy finger, Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart; Wear both of them, for both of them are thine.

“Fondling,” she saith, “since I have hemm’d thee here Within the circuit of this ivory pale, I’ll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer; Feed where thou wilt, on mountain, or in dale: Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry, Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.”

Love is a spirit all compact of fire, Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire.

Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear.

This word “love,” which greybeards call divine.

Now join your hands, and with your hands your hearts.

And I will make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies. 2

Come live with me, and be my love; And we will all the pleasures prove That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, 1 Woods or steepy mountain yields.

Servant in love and lord in marriage.

For love is blynd. 13

Love is noght oold as whan that it is newe.

O yonge, fresshe folkes, he or she, In which that love up groweth with youre age, Repeyreth hom fro worldly vanyte.

If no love is, O God, what fele I so? And if love is, what thing and which is he? If love be good, from whennes cometh my woo?

Venus clerk, Ovide, That hath ysowen wonder wide The grete god of Loves name.