 | Letters and poems |  |
Jealousie.
I
Who cou'd more happy, who more blest cou'd live,Than they whom kind, whom am'rous Passions move?
What Crowns, what Empires greater Joys cou'd give,
Than the soft Chains, the slavery of Love?
Were not the Bliss too often crost,
By that unhappy, vile Distrust;
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That terrible tormenting Rage, that Madness Jealousie.
II
In vain Celinda boasts she has been true;In vain she swears she keeps untouch'd her Charms;
Dire Jealousie does all my Pains renew,
And represents her in my Rival's Arms.
His Sighs I hear, his Looks I view,
I see her damn'd Advances too;
I see her smile, I see her kiss; and, oh! methinks I see
Her give up all those Joys to him, she shou'd reserve for me.
III
Ingrateful fair One, canst thou hear my Groans?Canst thou behold these Tears that fill my Eyes?
And yet unmov'd by all my Pains, my Moans,
Into another's Arms resign my Prize?
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My Sufferings might your Pity move:
Might hinder you from adding thus, by jealous Frenzies, more
New Pangs, to one whom hopeless Love had plagu'd too much before.
IV
Think not, false Nymph, my Fury to out-storm,I scorn your Anger, and despise your Frown:
Dress up your Rage in its most hideous form,
It will not move my Heart when Love is flown;
No, tho' you from my Kindness fly,
My Vengeance you shall satisfie;
The Muse that wou'd have sung your Praise, shall now aloud proclaim
To the malicious, spiteful World, your Infamy and Shame.
V
Ye Gods! she weeps; behold that falling Show'r!See how her Eyes are quite dissolv'd in Tears!
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Oh, no, it bears away my Doubts and Fears.
'Twas Pity sure that made it flow;
For the same Pity stop it now:
For every charming, heavenly Drop, that from those Eyes does part,
Is paid with Streams of Blood, that gush from my o'er-flowing Heart.
VI
Yes, I will love; I will believe you true,And raise my Passions up as high as e'er;
Nay, I'll believe you false, yet love you too,
Let the least sign of Penitence appear.
I'll frame Excuses for your Fault,
Think you surpriz'd, or meanly caught;
Nay, in the fury, in the heighth of that abhorr'd Embrace,
Believe you thought; believe at least, you wish'd me in the place.
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VII
Oh let me lie whole Ages in those Arms,And on that Bosom lull asleep my Cares:
Forgive those foolish Fears of fansy'd Harms,
That stab my Soul, while they but move thy Tears.
And think unless I lov'd thee still,
I had not treated thee so ill;
For these rude Pangs of Jealousie, are much more certain signs
Of Love, than all the tender Words an amorous Fancy coins.
VIII
Torment me with this horrid Rage no more;Oh, smile and grant one reconciling Kiss!
Ye Gods, she's kind, I'm ecstasie all o'er!
My Soul's too narrow to contain the Bliss.
Thou pleasing Torture of my Breast,
Sure thou wert fram'd to plague my Rest,
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That kills me with excess of Grief, This with excess of Joy.
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