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By any force, or any art,
Be brought to move one step from thee,
If my busy' Imagination
Do not thee in all things fashion,
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!
FROM Hate, Fear, Hope, Anger, and Envy, free,
In vain this state a freedom call;
Sometimes upon their idols fell,
And they deposed the powers of hell;
All this imperfect piety did no good,
Fondly I boast, that I have dress'd
Fear, Anger, Hope, all passions else that be,
And practise all your tyranny!
The change of ills some good will do:
Being slaves by the great Spanish monarch made,
Call in the States of Holland to their aid.
'Tis mighty wise that you would now be thought,
With tedious repetitions too you ’ave ta’en
Things which, I take it, friend, you'd ne'er recite,
She came not, like a good old wife, to know
BENEATH this gloomy shade,
In tears I'll waste these
By Love so vainly fed;
So Lust, of old, the Deluge punished.
"Ah, wretched youth!" said I;
"Ah, wretched youth!" twice did I sadly cry; "Ah, wretched youth!" the fields and floods reply.
When thoughts of Love I entertain,
I meet no words but " Never," and " In vain.” "Never," alas! that dreadful name
Which fuels the internal flame : "Never" my time to come must waste; "In vain" torments the present and the past. “In vain, in vain,” said I;
“In vain, in vain!" twice did I sadly cry ;
No more shall fields or floods do so;
No comfort to my wounded sight,
Then down I laid my head,
Down on cold earth; and for a while was dead, And my freed soul to a strange somewhere fled.
Ah, sottish Soul!" said I,
When back to' its cage again I saw it fly;
Fool, to resume her broken chain,
And row her galley here again!
Fool, to that body to return
Where it condemn'd and destin'd is to burn!
Once dead, how can it be,
Death should a thing so pleasant seem to thee,
That thou shouldst come to live it o'er again in me?"
WELL then; I now do plainly see
Ah, yet, ere I descend to the' grave,
And, since love ne'er will from me flee,
A mistress moderately fair,
And good as guardian-angels are,
Only beloved, and loving me!
Oh, fountains! when in you shall I Myself, eased of unpeaceful thought, espy? Oh, fields! oh, woods! when, when shall I be made The happy tenant of your shade?
Here's the spring-head of pleasure's flood; Where all the riches lie, that she
Has coin'd and stamp'd for good.
Pride and ambition here,
Only in far-fetch'd metaphors appear;
Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter, And nought but echo flatter.