 | The poems of John Wilmot: Earl of Rochester |  |
29
The MISTRESS.
A SONG.
1
An Age in her Embraces past,Would seem a Winters day;
Where Life and Light, with envious hast,
Are torn and snatch'd away.
2
But, oh how slowly Minutes rowl,When absent from her Eyes
That feed my Love, which is my Soul,
It languishes and dyes.
3
For then no more a Soul but shade,It mournfully does move;
And haunts my Breast, by absence made
The living Tomb of Love.
4
You Wiser men despise me not;Whose Love-sick Fancy raves,
On Shades of Souls, and Heaven knows what;
Short Ages live in Graves.
5
When e're those wounding Eyes, so fullOf Sweetness, you did see;
Had you not been profoundly dull,
You had gone mad like me.
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6
Nor Censure us You who perceiveMy best belov'd and me,
Sigh and lament, Complain and grieve,
You think we disagree.
7
Alas! 'tis Sacred Jealousie,Love rais'd to an Extream;
The only Proof 'twixt her and me,
We love, and do not dream.
8
Fantastick Fancies fondly move;And in frail Joys believe:
Taking false Pleasure for true Love;
But Pain can ne're deceive.
9
Kind Jealous Doubts, tormenting Fears,And Anxious Cares, when past;
Prove our Hearts Treasure fixt and dear,
And make us blest at last.
| The poems of John Wilmot: Earl of Rochester | |