King Arthur An Heroick Poem. In Twelve Books. By Richard Blackmore. To which is Annexed, An Index, Explaining the Names of Countrys, Citys, and Rivers, &c |
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 | King Arthur |  |
He paus'd, and then to Merula he cry'd,
You now your utmost Strength and Skill have try'd.
You've chang'd indeed th'Attack with Wondrous Art,
Quitting your Reason to engage my Heart.
You Wisely your Artillery apply'd
To the most tender, and defenceless side.
You did discreetly think the task not hard
To gain the illman'd Post, which Passions guard.
You thought to win me by your Artful Prayer,
Because I lov'd you and I thought you Fair.
'Tis true when you your Innocence maintain'd
By no Defection, no Rebellion stain'd,
You shone Illustrious in your Heav'nly Sphear,
And lovely as a Seraph did appear.
But now your Crime your beauteous Eyes disarms
Losing your Piety, you lose your Charms.
O'er your bright Form a Night of Guilt is spread,
And hangs in Stygian Clouds around your head.
Like a fallen Angel Merula has lost
The charming Graces which her Form could boast;
Which now no longer can afford Delight,
But like the Sun Eclips'd dos all affright,
And with a dying Splendor pains our sight.
You now your utmost Strength and Skill have try'd.
You've chang'd indeed th'Attack with Wondrous Art,
Quitting your Reason to engage my Heart.
You Wisely your Artillery apply'd
To the most tender, and defenceless side.
You did discreetly think the task not hard
To gain the illman'd Post, which Passions guard.
You thought to win me by your Artful Prayer,
Because I lov'd you and I thought you Fair.
'Tis true when you your Innocence maintain'd
By no Defection, no Rebellion stain'd,
226
And lovely as a Seraph did appear.
But now your Crime your beauteous Eyes disarms
Losing your Piety, you lose your Charms.
O'er your bright Form a Night of Guilt is spread,
And hangs in Stygian Clouds around your head.
Like a fallen Angel Merula has lost
The charming Graces which her Form could boast;
Which now no longer can afford Delight,
But like the Sun Eclips'd dos all affright,
And with a dying Splendor pains our sight.
| King Arthur | |