Ovid.    

Dryden.    

	The very thoughts of change I hate,
	As much as of despair;
	Nor ever covet to be great,
	Unless it be for her.

Parnell.    

Milton.    

	On you, most loved, with anxious fear I wait,
	And from your judgment must expect my fate.

Addison.    

	Where heart meets heart, reciprocally soft,
	Each other’s pillow to repose divine.

Young.    

	Take my esteem, if you on that can live,
	For frankly, sir, ’tis all I have to give.

Dryden.    

	Have I not managed my contrivance well
	To try your love and make you doubt of mine?

Dryden.    

	To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life,
	Or, crush’d in its ruins, to die!

Campbell.    

	For ever thine, whate’er this world betide,
	In youth, in age, thine own, for ever thine.

A. A. Watts.    

	Here still is the smile that no cloud can o’ercast,
	And the heart, and the hand, all thy own to the last.

Moore.    

	Thinkest thou
	That I could live, and let thee go,
	Who art my life itself?—no—no.

Moore.    

	It is not virtue, wisdom, valour, wit,
	Strength, comeliness of shape, or amplest merit,
	That woman’s love can win;
	But what it is, hard is to say, harder to hit.

Milton.    

	She listen’d with a flitting blush,
	With downcast eyes, and modest grace,
	For well she knew I could not choose
	But gaze upon her face.

Coleridge.    

	Yet, it is love—if thoughts of tenderness,
	Tried in temptation, strengthened by distress,
	Unmov’d by absence, firm in every clime,
	And yet—oh! more than all!—untir’d by time.

Byron.    

	By those tresses unconfin’d,
	Woo’d by every gentle wind;
	By those lids whose jetty fringe
	Kiss thy soft cheek’s blooming tinge;
	By those wild eyes, like the roe,
	Ah! hear my vow before I go—
	My dearest life, I love thee!
	Can I cease to love thee?—no!
	Zoe mous s-as agapo.

Byron.    

	On your hand, that pure altar, I vow,
	Though I’ve look’d and have lik’d, and have felt—
	That I never have lov’d—till now.

M. G. Lewis.    

	Never wedding, ever wooing,
	Still a love-lorn heart pursuing,
	Read you not the wrong you’re doing,
	In my cheek’s pale hue?
	All my life with sorrow strewing,
	Wed, or cease to woo.

Thomas Campbell.    

	’Tis not in fate to harm me,
	While fate leaves thy love to me;
	’Tis not in joy to charm me,
	Unless that joy be shar’d with thee.

Moore.