Poems, &c. By James Shirley.

A Lover that durst not speak to his M.

I Can no longer hold, my body growes Too narrow for my soul, sick with repose, My passions call to be abroad; and where Should I discharge their weight, but in her ear, From whose fair eyes the burning arrow came, And made my heart the Trophie to her flame.

I dare not. How? Cupid is blind we know, I never heard that he was dumb till now; Love, and not tell my Mistris? How crept in That subtle shaft? Is it to love a sin? Is't ill to feed a longing in my blood? And was't no fault in her to be so good?

I must not then be silent, yet forbear, Convey thy passion rather in some tear, Or let a sigh expresse, how much thy blisse Depends on her, or breathe it in a kisse, And mingle souls; loud accents call the eyes Of envie, and but waken jealousies: Then silence be my language, which if she But understand, and speak again to me, We shall secure our Fate, and prove at least The miracles of love are not quite ceast. Bar frowns from our discourse, and ev'ry where A smile may be his owne Interpreter. Thus we may read in spite of standers by, Whole volumes, in the twinckling of an eye.