John Hall (1627–1656)

ROMIRA, stay,

And run not thus like a young roe away;

No enemy

Pursues thee (foolish girl!), ’tis only I:

I’ll keep off harms,

If thou’ll be pleased to garrison mine arms;

What, dost thou fear

I’ll turn a traitor? may these roses here

To paleness shred,

And lilies stand disguisèd in new red,

If that I lay

A snare, wherein thou would’st not gladly stay.

See, see, the Sun

Does slowly to his azure lodging run;

Come, sit but here,

And presently he’ll quit our hemisphere:

So, still among

Lovers, time is too short or else too long;

Here will we spin

Legends for them that have love-martyrs been;

Here on this plain

We’ll talk Narcissus to a flower again.

Come here, and choose

On which of these proud plats thou would repose;

Here may’st thou shame

The rusty violets, with the crimson flame

Of either cheek,

And primroses white as thy fingers seek;

Nay, thou may’st prove

That man’s most noble passion is to love.