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?
Even 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 turn'd beasts to do the same.
The Thunderer, who, without the female bed,
Could Goddesses bring forth from out his head,
Chose rather mortals this way to create;
So much he' 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' the' frigid zone.
The Sun does his pure fires on earth bestow
With nuptial warmth, to bring forth things below;
Such is Love's noblest and divinest heat,
That warms like his, and does, like his, beget.
Lust 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 NOBODY,
AFTERWARDS 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,
Admired 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;
Shouldst thou have yielded then to me,
Thou'dst lost what I most loved in thee;
For who would serve one, whom he sees
That he could conquer if he please?
It fared 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 the' 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 doted once upon,
Ill object for affection;
But since, alas! too much 'tis proved, That yet 'twas something that I loved; desires are worse, and fly
At an impossibility:
Desires which, whilst so high they soar,
Are proud as that I loved before.
What lover can like me complain,
Who first loved vainly, next in vain!
IF mine eyes do e'er declare
They've seen a second thing that's fair; Or ears, that they have music found, Besides thy voice, in any sound;
my taste do ever meet,
After thy kiss, with aught that's sweet;
my abused touch allow
Aught to be smooth, or soft, but you;
If what seasonable springs,
Or the Eastern summer, brings,
Do my 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,
As beams do through a burning-glass;
If all things that in nature are
Either soft, or sweet, or fair,
Be not in thee so' epitomised,
That nought material's not comprised;
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 an 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 any thing but thee;
If any sorrow touch my mind,
Whilst you are well, and not unkind;
If 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 tiest 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,
Mayst thou no passion have for me!
If my busy' Imagination
Do not thee in all things fashion,
So that all fair species 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 ;-
If my Understanding do
Seek any knowledge but of you;
If she do near thy body prize
Her bodies of philosophies;
If she to the Will do show
Aught desirable but you;
Or, if that would not rebel,
Should she another doctrine tell;
If my Will do not resign
All her liberty to thine;
If she would not follow thee,
Though Fate and thou should disagree ;
And if (for I a curse will give,
Such as shall force thee to believe)
My soul be not entirely thine;
May thy dear body ne'er be mine!
|