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No, satisfy me first;
To one that dies with thirst?
A little puff of breath, we find,
Small fires can quench and kill ;
Does make them greater still.
But straight I'm just the same;
Of cutting through a flame.
Come, doctor! use thy roughest art,
Thou canst not cruel prove;
love. There is no danger, if the pain
Should me to a fever bring; Compared with heats I now sustain,
A fever is is so cool a thing
(Like drink which feverish men desire) That I should hope 'twould almost quench my fire.
Ask me not what my love shall do or be (Love, which is soul to body, and soul of me!)
When I am separated from thee;
Alas! I might as easily show, What after death the soul will do ; 'Twill last, I'm sure, and that is all we know.
The thing call’d soul will never stir nor move
For 'tis the body of my love:
love will fly away, But still continue; as, they say, Sad troubled ghosts about their graves do stray.
I chose the flourishing'st tree in all the park,
With freshest boughs and fairest head; I cut my love into his gentle bark,
And in three days, behold! 'tis dead : My very written flames so violent be, They've burnt and wither'd
the tree. How should I live myself, whose heart is found
Deeply graven every where
Larger than thy trunk can bear?
my heart has volumes put.
What a few words from thy rich stock did take
The leaves and beauties all,
The nails and hairs to fall:
Or characters could ne'er do this.
Pardon, ye birds and nymphs, who loved this shade;
And pardon me, thou gentle tree; I thought her name would thee have happy made,
And blessed omens hoped from thee: “Notes of my love, thrive here," said I, “and grow; And with
love do so.”
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.
'Tis 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 worshipper.
They see't too well who at my fires repine;
Nay, the' unconcern'd themselves do prove
; 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,
Damn’d by thy incredulity?
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.
I've seen too much, if this be all.
To show such stores, and nothing grant,
Is to enrage and vex my want.
We’ave both sat gazing only, hitherto,
As man and wife in picture do;
So, at first, Pygmalion loved,
But the' armour at last improved ; The statue itself at last a woman grew, And so at last, my dear, should you
Beauty to man the greatest torture is,
Unless it lead to farther bliss,
Unless 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.
I TRY'D if books would cure my love, but found
Love made them nonsense all; l'apply'd receipts of business to my wound,
But stirring did the pain recall.