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Richard Lovelace - Amyntor From Beyond The Sea To Alexis. A Dialogue
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                        Amyntor.
         Alexis! ah Alexis! can it be,
             Though so much wet and drie
                 Doth drowne our eye,
           Thou keep`st thy winged voice from me?

                         Alexis.
         Amyntor, a profounder sea, I feare,
             Hath swallow`d me, where now
                 My armes do row,
           I floate i`th` ocean of a teare.

         Lucasta weepes, lest I look back and tread
             Your Watry land againe.
Amyn.            I`d through the raine;
           Such showrs are quickly over-spread.

         Conceive how joy, after this short divorce,
             Will circle her with beames,
                 When, like your streames,
           You shall rowle back with kinder force,

         And call the helping winds to vent your thought.
Alex.        Amyntor! Chloris! where
                 Or in what sphere
           Say, may that glorious fair be sought?

Amyn.    She`s now the center of these armes e`re blest,
             Whence may she never move,
                 Till Time and Love
           Haste to their everlasting rest.

Alex.    Ah subtile swaine! doth not my flame rise high
             As yours, and burne as hot?
                 Am not I shot
           With the selfe same artillery?

         And can I breath without her air?—Amyn.
                   Why, then,
             From thy tempestuous earth,
                 Where blood and dearth
           Raigne `stead of kings, agen

         Wafte thy selfe over, and lest storms from far
             Arise, bring in our sight
                 The seas delight,
           Lucasta, that bright northerne star.

Alex.    But as we cut the rugged deepe, I feare
             The green god stops his fell
                 Chariot of shell,
           And smooths the maine to ravish her.

Amyn.    Oh no, the prince of waters` fires are done;
             He as his empire`s old,
                 And rivers, cold;
           His queen now runs abed to th` sun;

         But all his treasure he shall ope` that day:
             Tritons shall sound: his fleete
                 In silver meete,
           And to her their rich offrings pay.

Alex.    We flye, Amyntor, not amaz`d how sent
             By water, earth, or aire:
                 Or if with her
                 By fire: ev`n there
           I move in mine owne element.
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