--SPENSER.
* * * * *
As men tormented with a burning fever,
Dream that with drink they 'suage their grievous thirst,
But when they wake they find their thirst persever,
And to be greater than it was at first;
So she whose thoughts from love sleep could not sever,
Dreamt of that thing for which she 'wake did thirst;
But waking, felt and found it as before,
Her hope still less, and her desire still more.
SIR J. HARRINGTON.
* * * * *
---- Love is only root and crop of care,
The body's foe, the heart's annoy and cause of pleasures rare
The sickness of the mind and fountain of unrest,
The gulf of guile, the pit of pain, of grief the hollow chest;
A fiery frost, a flame that frozen is with ice,
A heavy burden light to bear, a virtue fraught with vice;
It is a worldlike peace, a safety seeing dread,
A deep despair annexed to hope, a fancy that is fed,
Sweet poison for his taste, a port Charybdis like,
A Scylla for his safety, though a lion that is meek.
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