Obrazy na stronie
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Come, thou just God! and equal me
Awhile to my disdainful She:
In that condition let me lie,

Till Love does the favour shew

Love equals all a better way than you.

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Then never more shalt thou b'invok'd by me;
Watchful as spirits and Gods I'll prove :

Let her but grant, and then will I
Thee and thy kinsman Death defy;
For, betwixt thee and them that love,
Never will an agreement be;
Thou scorn'st th' unhappy, and the happy, thee!

BEAUTY.

BEAUTY! thou wild fantastick ape,

Who dost in every country change thy shape! Here black, there brown, here tawny, and there white;

Thou flatterer! which comply'st with every sight!

Thou Babel, which confound'st the eye

With unintelligible variety !

Who hast no certain What, nor Where; But vary'st still, and dost thyself declare Inconstant, as thy she-professors are.

Beauty! Love's scene and masquerade,

So gay by well-plac'd lights and distance made!

False coin, with which th' impostor cheats us still;
The stamp and colour good, but metal ill!
Which light or base we find, when we
Weigh by enjoyment, and examine thee!
For, though thy being be but show,

'T is chiefly night which men to thee allow :
And choose t' enjoy thee, when thou least art Thou.

Beauty! thou active, passive ill!

Which dy'st thyself as fast as thou dost kill!
Thou tulip, who thy stock in paint dost waste,
Neither for physick good, nor smell, nor taste.
Beauty! whose flames but meteors are,
Short-liv'd and low, though thou wouldst seem a

star;

Who dar'st not thine own home descry,
Pretending to dwell richly in the eye,
When thou, alas! dost in the fancy lie.

Beauty! whose conquests still are made O'er hearts by cowards kept, or else betray'd; Weak victor! who thyself destroy'd must be When Sickness storms, or Time besieges thee!

Thou 'unwholesome thaw to frozen age! Thou strong wine, which youth's fever dost enrage! Thou tyrant, which leav'st no man free! fhou subtle thief, from whom nought safe can be! thou murderer, which hast kill'd, and devil, which wouldst damn me!

THE PARTING.

AS men in Greenland left beheld the sun
From their horizon run,

And thought upon the sad half-year
Of cold and darkness they must suffer there:

So on my parting mistress did I look;

With such swoln eyes my farewell took ;
Ah, my fair star! said I;

Ah, those blest lands to which bright Thou dost fly!

In vain the men of learning comfort me,
And say I'm in a warm degree;

Say what they please, I say and swear "T is beyond eighty' at least, if you're not here.

It is, it is; I tremble with the frost,

And know that I the day have lost;
And those wild things which men they call,

I find to be but bears or foxes all.

Return, return, gay planet of mine East,

Of all that shines thou much the best! And, as thou now descend'st to sea, More fair and fresh rise up from thence to me!

Thou, who in many a propriety,

So truly art the sun to me,

Add one more likeness (which I'm sure you can)

And let me and my sun beget a man!

MY PICTURE.

HERE, take my likeness with you, whilst 't is so;
For, when from hence you go,
The next sun's rising will behold
Me pale, and lean, and old:

The man who did this picture draw,
Will swear next day my face he never saw.

I really believe, within a while,

If you upon this shadow smile,

Your presence will such vigour give

(Your presence, which makes all things live!)

And absence so much alter me,

This will the substance, I the shadow, be.

When from your well-wrought cabinet you take it,
And your bright looks awake it,
Ah! be not frighted if you see

The new-soul'd picture gaze on thee,
And hear it breathe a sigh or two;

For those are the first things that it will do.

My rival-image will be then thought blest,
And laugh at me as dispossest;

But thou, who (if I know thee right)

I' th' substance dost not much delight,
Wilt rather send again for me,
Who then shall but my picture's picture be.

THE CONCEALMENT.

break.

NO; to what purpose should I speak
No, wretched heart! swell till you
She cannot love me if she would;
And, to say truth, 't were pity that she should.
No; to the grave thy sorrows bear;

As silent as they will be there :

Since that lov'd hand this mortal wound does give,
So handsomely the thing contrive,

That she may guiltless of it live;
So perish, that her killing thee

May a chance-medley, and no murder, be.

'Tis nobler much for me, that I
By' her beauty, not her anger, die:
This will look justly, and become
An execution; that, a martyrdom.
The censuring world will ne'er refrain
From judging men by thunder slain.

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