Margaret Cavendish

Upon the Theam of Love

O love, how thou art Tyred out with Rhime!
Thou art a Tree, whereon all Poets Clime,
And from thy Tender Branches every one
Doth take some Fruit, which Fancy feeds upon:
But now thy Tree is left so Bare and Poor,
That they can hardly gather one Plum more.

A Man to his Mistress

O do not grieve, Dear Heart, nor shed a Tear,
Since in your Eyes my Life doth still appear;
And in your Countenance my Death I find,
I'm Buried in your Melancholy Mind;
But in your Smiles I'm Glorified to Rise,
And your pure Love doth me Eternalize:
Thus by your Favour you a God me make,
But by your Hate a Devils Shape I take.