Poems on Several Occasions Written by Charles Cotton |
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Stances de Monsieur de Scudery.
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 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
Stances de Monsieur de Scudery.
Fair Nymph, by whose Perfections mov'd,
My wounded heart is turn'd to flame,
By all admir'd, by all approv'd,
Endure at least to be belov'd,
Although you will not love again.
My wounded heart is turn'd to flame,
By all admir'd, by all approv'd,
Endure at least to be belov'd,
Although you will not love again.
Aminta, as unkind as fair,
What is there that you ought to fear?
For cruel if I you declare,
And that indeed you cruel are;
Why the Reproach may you not hear?
What is there that you ought to fear?
For cruel if I you declare,
And that indeed you cruel are;
Why the Reproach may you not hear?
Even Reproaches should delight,
If Friendship for me you have none,
And if no Anger, I have yet
Enough perhaps that may invite
Your hatred or Compassion.
If Friendship for me you have none,
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Enough perhaps that may invite
Your hatred or Compassion.
When your Disdain is most severe,
When you most rigorous do prove,
When frowns of Anger most you wear,
You still more charming do appear,
And I am more and more in Love.
When you most rigorous do prove,
When frowns of Anger most you wear,
You still more charming do appear,
And I am more and more in Love.
Ah, let me, Sweet, your sight enjoy,
Though with the forfeit of my Life,
For fall what will, I'de rather dye,
Beholding you, of present Joy,
Than absent, of a lingring grief.
Though with the forfeit of my Life,
For fall what will, I'de rather dye,
Beholding you, of present Joy,
Than absent, of a lingring grief.
Let your Eyes lighten, 'till expiring
In flame, my Heart a Cinder lye,
Falling is nobler than retiring,
And in the glory of aspiring,
'Tis brave to tumble from the Sky.
In flame, my Heart a Cinder lye,
Falling is nobler than retiring,
And in the glory of aspiring,
'Tis brave to tumble from the Sky.
Yet I would any thing embrace
Might serve your Anger to appease,
And if I may obtain my grace,
Your steps shall leave no print, nor trace
I will not with Devotion kiss.
Might serve your Anger to appease,
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Your steps shall leave no print, nor trace
I will not with Devotion kiss.
If, Tyrant, you will have it so,
No word my Passion shall betray,
My wounded Heart shall hide its woe;
But if it sigh, those Sighs will show,
And tell you what my Tongue would say.
No word my Passion shall betray,
My wounded Heart shall hide its woe;
But if it sigh, those Sighs will show,
And tell you what my Tongue would say.
Should yet your Rigour higher rise,
Even those offending Sighs shall cease,
I will my Pain and grief disguise;
But, Sweet, if you consult mine Eyes,
Those Eyes will tell you my Disease.
Even those offending Sighs shall cease,
I will my Pain and grief disguise;
But, Sweet, if you consult mine Eyes,
Those Eyes will tell you my Disease.
If th' utmost my Respect can do,
Still will your Cruelty displease,
Consult your Face, and that will shew
What Love is to such Beauty due,
And to the state of my Disease.
Still will your Cruelty displease,
Consult your Face, and that will shew
What Love is to such Beauty due,
And to the state of my Disease.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |