A thing God thought for mankind so unfit, Cold, frozen nurse of fiercest fires! Who, like the parched plains of Afric's sand Art always scorch'd with hot desires, Thou that bewitchest men whilst thou dost dwell And fear'st the day's discovering eye! No wonder 'tis at all that thou shouldst be Such tedious and unpleasant company, Who livest so melancholily! Thou thing of subtile, slippery kind, Although I think thou never found wilt be, Yet things well worth his toil he gains ; Say what thou wilt, chastity is no more In vain to honour they pretend, [walls; Who guard themselves with ramparts and with IMPOSSIBILITIES. IMPOSSIBILITIES! oh no, there's none; True lovers oft by Fortune are envied; And a good end at last does give : As stars (not powerful else) when they conjoin, And to our stars themselves prescribe a fate. "Twould grieve me much to find some bold romance, But none should Fancy more, than I would Do. Through spite of our worst enemies, thy friends; Through local banishment from thee; Through the loud thoughts of less-concerning ends, As easy shall my passage be, As was the amorous youth's o'er Helle's sea: In vain the winds, in vain the billows, roar: He saw the Sestian tower on the' other shore; Shall the' Hellespont our loves divide? Such seas betwixt us easily conquer'd are; To let thy beams shine on me from afar; For, when thy light goes out, I sink and die. SILENCE. CURSE on this tongue, that has my heart betray'd, For, of all persons, chiefly she Since 'tis a thing might dangerous grow, Only in her to pity me : Since 'tis for me to lose my life more fit, Ah! never more shall thy unwilling ear Discourse and talk awake does keep That in my breast does reign; I'll bind that sore up I did ill reveal; The wound, if once it close, may chance to heal. No, 'twill ne'er heal; my love will never die, A river, ere it meet the sea, We know the flood runs still, though underground. THE DISSEMBLER. UNHURT, untouch'd, did I complain, And terrify'd all others with the pain: But now I feel the mighty evil; Ah! there's no fooling with the devil! So, wanton men, whilst others they would fright, Themselves have met a real sprite. I thought, I'll swear, an handsome lie Had been no sin at all in poetry; But now I suffer an arrest, For words were spoke by me in jest. Darts, and wounds, and flame, and heat, Truth gives a dull propriety to my style, In things where fancy much does reign, My lines of amorous desire I wrote to kindle and blow others' fire; THE INCONSTANT. I NEVER yet could see that face Love, thou'rt a devil, if I may call thee one; Colour, or shape, good limbs, or face, If all fail, yet 'tis woman-kind; And I'm so weak, the pistol need not be If black, what lover loves not night? The fat, like plenty, fills my heart; Nay, age itself does me to rage incline, Just half as large as Charity My richly-landed Love's become ; And, judged aright, is Constancy, Though it take up a larger room: Him, who loves always one, why should they call More constant than the man loves always all? |