pain
What 'tis to love, and not be lov'd againe.

Flye on, flye on, swift Racer, untill she
Whom thou of all ador'st shall learne of thee
The pace t'outfly thee, and shall teach thee groan,
What terrour 'tis t'outgo and be outgon.

Nor yet looke back, nor yet must we
Run then like spoakes in wheeles eternally,
And never overtake? Be dragg'd on still
By the weake cordage of your untwin'd will
Round without hope of rest? No, I will turne,
And with my goodnes boldly meete your scorne;
My goodnesse which Heav'n pardon, and that fate
MADE YOU HATE LOVE, AND FALL IN LOVE WITH HATE.

But I am chang'd! Bright reason, that did give
My soule a noble quicknes, made me live
One breath yet longer, and to will, and see
Hath reacht me pow'r to scorne as well as thee:
That thou, which proudly tramplest on my grave,
Thyselfe mightst fall, conquer'd my double slave:
That thou mightst, sinking in thy triumphs, moan,
And I triumph in my destruction.

Hayle, holy cold! chaste temper, hayle! the fire
Rav'd<40.2> o're my purer thoughts I feel t' expire,
And I am candied ice. Yee pow'rs! if e're
I shall be forc't unto my sepulcher,
Or violently hurl'd into my urne,
Oh make me choose rather to freeze than burne.

<40.1> Carew (POEMS, ed. 1651, p. 53) has some lines, entitled,
"In the person of a Lady to her Inconstant Servant," which are
of nearly similar purport to Lovelace's poem, but are both shorter
and better.

<40.2> RAV'D seems here to be equivalent to REAV'D, or BEREAV'D.
Perhaps the correct reading may be "reav'd." See Worcester's
DICTIONARY, art. RAVE, where Menage's supposition of affinity
between RAVE and BEREAVE is perhaps a little too slightingly
treated.

THE GRASSEHOPPER.
TO MY NOBLE FRIEND, MR. CHARLES COTTON.<41.1>
ODE.

I.
Oh thou, that swing'st upon the waving eare<41.2>
Of some well-filled oaten beard,<41.3>
Drunk ev'ry night with a delicious teare<41.4>
Dropt thee from Heav'n, where now th'art reard.

II.
The joyes of earth and ayre are thine intire,
That with thy feet and wings dost hop and flye;
And when thy poppy workes, thou dost retire
To thy carv'd acorn-bed to lye.

III.
Up with the day, the Sun thou welcomst then,
Sportst in the guilt plats<41.5> of his beames,
And all these merry dayes mak'st merry men,<41.6>
Thy selfe, and melancholy streames.

IV