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O Love, how thou art tired out with rhyme!

Thou art a tree whereon all poets climb;

And from thy branches every one takes some

Of thy sweet fruit, which fancy feeds upon,

But now thy tree is left so bare and poor

That they can hardly gather one plum more.



Margret Cavendish

Duchess of Newcastle

1624-1674

If ever two were one, then surely we.

If ever man were loved by wife, thrn thee;

If ever wife was happy in a man,

Compare with me, ye women, if you can.

I prize thy love more then whole mines of gold,

Or all the riches that the East doth hold.

My love is such that rivers cannot quench,

Nor aught but love from thee give recompense.

Thy love is such no way can I repay;

The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.

Then while we live, in love let's so persever,

That when we live no more we may live ever.



Anne Bradstreet