The Phanseys of William Cavendish Marquis of Newcastle addressed to Margaret Lucas and her Letters in reply: Edited by Douglas Grant |
 |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 19. |
| 20. |
| 21. |
| 22. |
| 23. |
| 24. |
| 25. |
| 26. |
| 27. |
| 28. |
| 29. |
| 30. |
| 31. |
| 32. |
| 33. |
| 34. |
| 35. |
| 36. |
| 37. |
| 38. |
| 39. |
| 40. |
| 41. |
| 42. |
| 43. |
| 44. |
| 45. |
| 46. |
| 47. |
| 48. |
| 49. |
| 50. |
| 51. |
| 52. |
| 53. |
| 54. |
| 55. |
| 56. |
| 57. |
| 58. |
| 59. |
| 60. |
| 61. |
| 62. |
| 63. |
| 64. |
| 65. |
| 66. |
| 67. |
| 68. |
| 69. |
| 70. |
| 71. |
| 72. |
| 73. |
| 74. | 74 Love's fier |
 | The Phanseys of William Cavendish Marquis of Newcastle |  |
95
74
Love's fier
I know I'm old, it is too true,
Yett love, nay, am in love with you;
Doe not dispise mee, or be Cruell,
For thus I am love's best of fuell.
No man can love more, or loves higher;
Old and dry wood makes the best fier,
Burnes cleerest, and is still the same,
Turn'd all into a living flame.
It lasts not long, is that your doubt,
When am to ashes all burnt out?
A short and lively heate that's pure,
Will warme one best, though not indure.
Yett love, nay, am in love with you;
Doe not dispise mee, or be Cruell,
For thus I am love's best of fuell.
No man can love more, or loves higher;
Old and dry wood makes the best fier,
Burnes cleerest, and is still the same,
Turn'd all into a living flame.
It lasts not long, is that your doubt,
When am to ashes all burnt out?
A short and lively heate that's pure,
Will warme one best, though not indure.
When young, wett wood makes but a smoake,
And never warmes but doth you Choake;
Though with your panting Bellows trie,
That litle fier seemes to die;
Smother'd in Vapours, dimly lies;
Plesant, nor Usefull, spoyles your Eyes;
Shivring for cold, Colder dispaire
With sighinge in and out the Ayre.
Thus Languishinge, take the pure fier
That will warme the height of thy desier:
Meeting in one, thine flame, thus seated,
Continue longe, both warme and heated.
And never warmes but doth you Choake;
Though with your panting Bellows trie,
That litle fier seemes to die;
Smother'd in Vapours, dimly lies;
Plesant, nor Usefull, spoyles your Eyes;
Shivring for cold, Colder dispaire
With sighinge in and out the Ayre.
Thus Languishinge, take the pure fier
That will warme the height of thy desier:
Meeting in one, thine flame, thus seated,
Continue longe, both warme and heated.
| The Phanseys of William Cavendish Marquis of Newcastle | |