The Bookshelf

Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said,

Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,

Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd,

To-morrow sharpen'd in his former might:

So, love, be thou; although to-day thou fill

Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness,

To-morrow see again, and do not kill

The spirit of love with a perpetual dulness.

Let this sad interim like the ocean be

Which parts the shore, where two contracted-new

Come daily to the banks, that, when they see

Return of love, more blest may be the view;

Or call it winter, which, being full of care,

Makes summer's return thrice more wish'd, more rare.