Make haste my Beloved, and be like the Roe or the young Hart upon the Mountaines of Spices.
Go, gentle Tyrant, goe; thy flames do pierce
My soule too deep; thy flames are too too fierce:
My marrow melts; my fainting Spirits fry
Ith'torrid Zone of thy Meridian Eye;
Away, away: Thy sweets are too perfuming;
Turne, turne thy face; Thy fires are too consuming:
Hast hence; and let thy winged steps out-goe
The frighted Roe-buck, and his flying Roe.
But wilt thou leave me then? O thou that art
Life of my Soule, Soule of my dying heart,
Without the sweet Aspect of whose faire Eyes,
My soule does languish, and her solace dies;
Art thou so easly woo'd? So apt to heare
The frantick language of my foolish Feare?
Leave, leave me not; nor turne thy beauty from me,
Looke, looke upon me, though thine eyes ov'rcome me.
O how they wound! But, how my wounds content me!
How sweetly these delightfull paines torment me!
How I am tortur'd in excessive measure
Of pleasing cruelties too cruell pleasure!
Turne, turne away; remove they scorching beames;
I languish with these bitter-sweet extreames:
Hast then, and let thy winged steps out-goe
The flying Roe-buck, and his frighted Roe.
Turne back, my deare; O let my revisht eye
Once more behold thy face before thou flie;
What? shall we part without a mutuall kisse?
O who can leave so sweet a face as this?
Looke full upon me; for my soule desires
To turne a holy Martyr in those fires:
O leave me not, nor turne thy beauty from me;
Looke, looke upon me, though thy flames ov'rcome me.
If thou becloud the Sun-shine of thine eye,
I freeze to death; and if it shine, I frie;
Which like a Fever, that my soule has got,
Makes me burne too cold, or freeze to hot:
Alas, I cannot beare so sweet a smart,
Nor canst thou be lesse glorious than thou art:
Hast then, and let thy winged steps out-goe
The frighted Roe-buck, and his flying Roe.
But goe not farre beyond the reach of breath;
Too large a distance makes another death:
My youth is in her Spring; Autumnall vowes
Will make me riper for so sweet a Spouse,
When after-times have burnish'd my desire,
Ile shoot thee flames for flames, and fire for fire.
O leave me not, nor turne thy beauty from me;
Looke, looke upon me, though thy flames ov'rcome me.
Author scalae Paradisi. Tom. 9. Aug. Cap. 8.
Feare not O Bride, nor despaire; Thinke not thy self contemn'd, if thy
Bridegroome withdraw his face awhile: All things co-operate for the best: Both
from his absence, and his presence thou gainest light: He comes to thee, and he
goes from thee: He comes, to make thee consolate; He goes, to make thee
cautious, lest thy abundant consolation puffe thee up: He comes, that thy
languishing soule may be comforted; He goes; lest his familiarity should be
contemned; and, being absent, to be more desired; and being desired, to be more
earnestly sought; and being long sought, to be more acceptably found.
