That happy thing, a lover, grown I shall not see with others' eyes-scarce with mine own. * But do not touch my heart, and so be gone: As great in love as in religion. Come arm'd with flames, for I would prove NOT FAIR. 'Tis very true; I thought you once as fair As women in th' idea are: Whatever here seems beauteous, seem'd to be But a faint metaphor of thee. But then, methought, there something shin'd within Which cast this lustre o'er thy skin. But since I knew thy falsehood, and thy pride, And all thy thousand faults beside; A very Moor, methinks, plac'd near to thee, Nay, when the world but knows how false you are, There's not a man will think you fair. [From "the Change."] LOVE in her sunny eyes does basking play, And sows and reaps a thousand kisses there: In all her outward parts love's always seen;— But, oh! he never went within. [From "the Soul."] IF mine eyes do e'er declare They've seen a second thing that's fair, After thy kiss with aught that's sweet; If my abused touch allow Aught to be smooth or soft but you; Or the eastern summer brings, Do my smell persuade at all Aught perfume but thy breath to call; May I as worthless seem to thee, If I ever anger know, Till some wrong be done to you ; If ever I an hope admit, Without thy image stamp'd on it; Or any fear, till I begin To find that you're concern'd therein; If a joy e'er come to me, That tastes of any thing but thee; Whilst you are well and not unkind; The things beneath thy hatred fall, Though all the world, myself and all; VOL. III. If any passion of my heart, By any force or any art, Be brought to move one step from thee, [From "the Wish."] WELL, then; I now do plainly see And they, methinks, deserve my pity, Who for it can endure the stings, The crowd, and buz, and murmurings, Ah! yet, ere I descend to th' grave, May I a small house and large garden have; And a few friends, and many books, both true, Both wise, and both delightful too! And (since love ne'er will from me flee), A mistress, moderately fair, And good, as guardian-angels are; - Only belov'd, and loving me! How happy here should I, And one dear she, live, and embracing die? She who is all the world, and can exclude In desarts solitude. [From "the Inconstant."] I NEVER yet could see that face, Colour or shape, good limbs, or face, In motion or in speech a grace, If tall, the name of proper slays; If fair, she's pleasant as the light; |