« PoprzedniaDalej »
But as, when the Pellaean conqueror dy'd,
Many small princes did his crown divide;
So, since my love his vanquish'd world forsook,
Murder'd by poisons from her falsehood took,
An hundréd petty kings claim each their part,
And rend that glorious empire of her heart.
Her body is so gently bright,
Clear and transparent to the sight,
(Clear as fair crystal to the view,
Yet soft as that, ere stone it grew)
That through her flesh, methinks, is seen
The brighter soul that dwells within :
Our eyes the subtile covering pass,
And see that lily through its glass.
I through her breast her heart espy,
As souls in hearts do souls descry:
I see’t with gentle motions beat;
I see light in 't, but find no heat.
Within, like angels in the sky,
A thousand gilded thoughts do fly;
Thoughts of bright and noblest kind,
Fair and chaste as mother-mind.
But oh! what other heart is there,
which sighs and crouds to her’s so near?
*Tis all on flame, and does, like fire,
To that, as to its Heaven, aspire'
The wounds are many in 't and deep;
Still does it bleed, and still does weep!
Whose-ever wretched heart it be,
I cannot choose but grieve to see:
What pity in my breast does reign!
Methinks I feel too all its pain.
Sotorm, and so defac'd, it lies,
That it could ne'er be known by th’ eyes;
Butoh at last I heard it groan,
And knew by th’ voice that 'twas mine own.
So poor Alcione, when she saw
A shipwreck'd body tow’rds her draw,
Beat by the waves, let fall a tear,
Which only then did pity wear:
But, when the corpse on shore were cast,
Which she her husband found at last,
What should the wretched widow do?
Grief chang'd her straight; away she flew,
Turn'd to a bird: and so at last shall I
Both from my murder'd heart and murderer fly.
So angels love; so let them love for me;
When I’m all soul, such shall my love too be :
Who nothing here but like a spirit would do,
-In a short time, believe 't, will be one too.
But, shall our love do what in beasts we see?
Ev’n beasts eat too, but not so well as we .
And you as justly might in thirst refuse
The use of wine, because beasts water use:
They taste those pleasures as they do their food;
Undress'd they take’t, devour it raw and crude:
But to us men, Love cooks it at his fire,
And adds the poignant sauce of sharp desire.
Beasts do the same: 'tis true; but ancient Fame
Says, gods themselves túrû'd beasts to do the
The Thunderer, who, without the female bed,
Could goddesses bring-forth from out his head,
Chose rather mortals this way to create;
Somuch h' esteem'd his pleasure’bove his state.
Ye talk of fires which shine, but never burn;
In this cold world they’ll hardly serve our turn;
As useless to despairing lovers grown,
As lambent flames to men i' th' frigid zone.
The Sun does his pure fires on Earth bestow
With nuptial warmth, to bring-forth thingsbe.
Such is Love's noblest and divinest heat,
That warms like his, and does, like his, beget.
Lust you call this; a name to yours more just,
If an inordinate desire be lust:
Pygmalion, loving what none can enjoy,
More lustful was, than the hot youth of Troy.
Loving one First because she could Love sobody, AfrienwARDs Loving her with DESIRE.
What new-found witchcraft was in thee,
With thine own cold to kindle me?
Strange art! like him that should devise
To make a burning-glass of ice:
When Winter so, the plants would harm,
Her snow itself does keep them warm.
Fool that I was who, having found
A rich and sunny diamond,
Admir'd the hardness of the stone,
But not the light with which it shone.
Your brave and haughty scorn of all
Was stately and monarchical ;
All gentleness, with that esteem’d,
A dull and slavish virtue seem’d;
Should'st thou have yielded then to me,
Thou'dst lost what I most lov’d in thee;
For who would serve one, whom he sees
That he can conquer if he please?
It far'd with me, as if a slave
In triumph led, that does perceive
With what a gay majestic pride
His conqueror through the streets does ride,
Should be contented with his woe,
Which makes up such a comely show.
I sought not from thee a return,
But without hopes or fears did burn;
My covetous passion did approve
The hoarding-up, not use, of love.
My love a kind of dream was grown,
A foolish, but a pleasant one:
From which I'm waken'd now; but, oh!
Prisoners to die are waken'd so;
For now th' effects of loving are
Nothing but longings, with despair:
Despair, whose torments no men, sure,
But lovers and the damn'd, endure,
Her scorn I doated once upon,
Ill object for affection;
But since, alas! too much 'tis prov’d,
That yet ’twas something that I lov'd;
Now my desires are worse, and fly
At an impossibility:
Desires which, whilst so high they
Are proud as that I lov’d before, ey soar,
Whatlover can like me complain, Who first lov’d vainly, next in vaint
To mine eyes doe'er declare
They've seen a second thing that's fair;
Or ears, that they have music found,
Besides thy voice, in any sound;
If my taste do ever meet,
After thy kiss, with aught that 's sweet;
If my abused touch allow
Aught to be smooth, or soft, but you;
If what seasonable springs,
Orthe eastern summer brings,
Domy smell persuade at all
Aught perfume, but thy breath, to call;
If all my senses’ objects be
Not contracted into thee,
And so through thee more powerful pass,
Asbeams do through a burning-glass;
If all things that in Nature are
Either soft, or sweet, or fair,
Benot in thee so epitomis'd,
That nought material's not comprisd;
May I as worthless seem to thee,
As all, but thou, appears to me!
If I ever anger know,
Till some wrong be done to you;
If gods or kings my envy move,
Without their crowns crown'd by thy love;
If ever I a hope admit,
Without thy image stamp'd on it;
Or any fear, till I begin
To find that you’re concern'd therein;
If a joy e^er come to me,
That tastes of anything but thee;
If any sorrow touch my mind,
Whilst you are well, and not unkind;
Hs I a minute's space debate,
Whether. I shall curse and hate
The things beneath thy hatred fall,
Though all the world, myself and all;
And for love, if ever I
Approach to it again so nigh,
As to allow a toleration
To the least glimmering inclination;
If thou alone dost not control
All those tyrants of my soul,
And to thy beauties ty'st them so,
That constant they as habits grow;
If any passion of my heart,
By any force, or any art,
Be brought to move one step from thee,
May'st thou no passion have for me!
If my busy Imagination,
Do not thee in all things fashion;
so that all fairspecies be
Hieroglyphic marks of thee;
If when she her sports does keep
(The lower soul being all asleep)
she play one dream, with all her art,
where thou hast not the longest part;
If aught get place in my remembrance,
Without some badge of thy resemblance,
So that thy parts become to me
A kind of art of memory;