I.
I laugh and sing, but cannot tell
Whether the folly on't sounds well;
But then I groan,
Methinks, in tune;
Whilst grief, despair and fear dance to the air
Of my despised prayer.
II.
A pretty antick love does this,
Then strikes a galliard with a kiss;
As in the end
The chords they rend;
So you but with a touch from your fair hand
Turn all to saraband.
More verses by Richard Lovelace
- To Lucasta. Her Reserved Looks.
- To My Truely Valiant, Learned Friend; Who In His Brooke Resolv'D The Art Gladiatory Into The Mathematicks
- In Allusion To The French Song. N'Entendez Vous Pas Ce Language
- Amyntor From Beyond The Sea To Alexis. A Dialogue
- Ellinda's Glove. Sonnet