So torn, and so defac'd, it lies,
That it could ne'er be known by th' eyes;
But, oh! at last I heard it groan,
And knew by th' voice that 't was 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.
ANSWER TO THE PLATONICKS.
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:
ANSWER TO THE PLATONICKS. 23 But to us men, Love cooks it at his fire,
And adds the poignant sauce of sharp desire.
Beasts do the same: 't is true; but ancient Fame
Says, Gods themselves turn'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;
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' th' 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 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 Nobody, after wards 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 ;
Shouldst 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 could conquer if he please?
It far'd with me, as if a slave
In triumph led, that does perceive
With what a gay majestick 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 doted once upon,
Ill object for affection;
But since, alas! too much 't is prov'd, That yet 't was something that I lov'd; my desires are worse, and fly
At an impossibility:
Desires which, whilst so high they soar, Are proud as that I lov'd before.
What lover can like me complain,
Who first lov'd vainly, next in vain!
They've seen a second thing that's fair;
Or ears, that they have musick found,
Besides thy voice, in any sound;
If 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' epitomis'd,
That nought material's not compris'd;
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
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