Courante Monsieur
That frown, Aminta, now hath drown’d
Thy bright front’s pow’r, and crown’d
Me that was bound.
No, no, deceived cruel, no!
Love’s fiery darts,
Till tipt with kisses, never kindle hearts.
Adieu, weak beauteous tyrant, see!
Thy angry flames meant me,
Retort on thee:
For know, it is decreed, proud fair,
I ne’r must dye
By any scorching, but a melting, eye.
Other works by Richard Lovelace...
The Triumphs of Philamore and Amoret. to the Noblest of Our Youth and Best of Friends, Charles Cotton, Esquire. Being at Berisford, at His House in Straffordshire. From London. a Poem
Sir, your sad absence I complain,… Her long-hid spring, that gave her… Who now her cheerful aromatick hea… Shrinks in her cold and dismal wid… Whilst the false sun her lover dot…
