When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom – is to die.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH (1766)
[SONG. A RED RED ROSE]
O my Luve’s like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve’s like the melodie
That’s sweetly play’d in tune. –
As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will love thee still, my Dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry. –
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my Dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:
I will love thee still, my Dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run. –
And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
And fare thee weel, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousands mile!
ROBERTS BURNS (1794)
*THESE POEMS WERE TAKEN FROM THE MACMILLAN ANTHOLOGIES OF ENGLISH LITERATURE WITH THE MAIN AIM OF CELEBRATING THE THEME OF LOVE AS USED IN THE RESTORATION AND EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.
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