Obrazy na stronie

“Notes of my love, thrive here,” said I, “ and grow; “And with ye let my love do so.”

Alas, poor youth ! thy love will never thrive!
This blasted tree predestines it; -

Go, tie the dismal knot (why shouldst thou live )
And, by the lines thou there hast writ,

Deform'dly hanging, the sad picture be
To that unlucky history.


'T IS a strange kind of ignorance this in you !
That you your victories should not spy,
Victories gotten by your eye

That your bright beams, as those of comets do,
Should kill, but not know how, nor who !

That truly you my idol might appear,
Whilst all the people smell and see
The odorous flames I offer thee,

Thou sitt'st, and dost not see, nor smell, nor hear,
Thy constant, zealous worshiper.

They see’t too well who at my fires repine;

Nay, th’ unconcern'd themselves do prove
Quick-eyed enough to spy my love;


Nor does the cause in thy face clearlier shine,
Than the effect appears in mine.

Fair infidel ! by what unjust decree
Must I, who with such restless care
Would make this truth to thee appear,

Must I, who preach it, and pray for it, be
Damn'd by thy incredulity

I, by thy unbelief, am guiltless slain:
Oh, have but faith, and then, that you
May know that faith for to be true,

It shall itself by a miracle maintain,
And raise me from the dead again!

Meanwhile my hopes may seem to be o'erthrown;
But lovers’ hopes are full of art,
And thus dispute—That, since my heart,

Though in thy breast, yet is not by thee known,
Perhaps thou may'st not know thine own.


COME, let’s go on, where love and youth does
call; •
I've seen too much, if this be all.
Alas! how far more wealthy might I be
With a contented ignorant poverty

To shew such stores, and nothing grant,

Is to enrage and vex my want.
For love to die an infant's lesser ill,
Than to live long, yet live in childhood still.

We’ave both sat gazing only, hitherto,
As man and wife in picture do;
The richest crop of joy is still behind,
And he who only sees, in love, is blind.
So, at first, Pygmalion lov’d,
But th' armour at last improv'd ;
The statue itself at last a woman grew,
And so at last, my dear, should you do too.

Beauty to man the greatest torture is,
Unless it lead to farther bliss,

Beyond the tyrannous pleasures of the eye;

It grows too serious a cruelty,
Untless it heal, as well as strike:
I would not, salamander-like,

In scorching heats always to live desire,

But, like a martyr, pass to heaven through fire.

Mark how the lusty sun salutes the spring,
And gently kisses every thing !
His loving beams unlock each maiden flower,
Search all the treasures, all the sweets devour:
Then on the earth, with bridegroom-heat,
He does still new flowers beget.
The sun himself, although all eye he be,
Can find in love more pleasure than to see.


I TRY’D if books would cure my love, but found
Love made them nonsense all;

I'apply'd receipts of business to my wound,
But stirring did the pain recall. •

As well might men who in a fever fry,
Mathematick doubts debate;

As well might men who mad in darkness lie,
Write the dispatches of a state.

I try’d devotion, sermons, frequent prayer,
But those did worse than useless prove;

For prayers are turn'd to sin, in those who are
Out of charity, or in love.

I try’d in wine to drown the mighty care;
But wine, alas! was oil to th’ fire :
Like drunkards' eyes, my troubled fancy there
Did double the desire.

I try’d what mirth and gaiety would do,
And mix’d with pleasant companies;
My mirth did graceless and insipid grow,
* And 'bove a clinch it could not rise.

Nay, God forgive me for 't! at last I try'd,
'Gainst this some new desire to stir,


And lov’d again, but ’t was where I espy'd
Some faint resemblances of her.

The physick made me worse, with which I strove
This mortal ill to expel;

As wholesome medicines the disease improve,
There where they work not well.


SHE loves, and she confesses too;
There’s then, at last, no more to do:
The happy work's entirely done;
Enter the town which thou hast won;
The fruits of conquest now begin;
Ió triumph : Enter in.

What's this, ye Gods ! what can it be
Remains there still an enemy
Bold Honour stands up in the gate,
And would yet capitulate;
Have I o'ercome all real foes,
And shall this phantom me oppose

Noisy nothing! stalking shade 1
By what witchcraft wert thou made *
Empty cause of solid harms!
But I shall find out counter-charms,

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