 | The Poems of Edmund Waller |  |
27
TO PHYLLIS.
Phyllis! 'twas love that injured you,
And on that rock your Thyrsis threw;
Who for proud Celia could have died,
Whilst you no less accused his pride.
And on that rock your Thyrsis threw;
Who for proud Celia could have died,
Whilst you no less accused his pride.
Fond Love his darts at random throws,
And nothing springs from what he sows;
From foes discharged, as often meet
The shining points of arrows fleet,
In the wide air creating fire,
As souls that join in one desire.
And nothing springs from what he sows;
From foes discharged, as often meet
The shining points of arrows fleet,
In the wide air creating fire,
As souls that join in one desire.
Love made the lovely Venus burn
In vain, and for the cold youth mourn,
Who the pursuit of churlish beasts
Preferred to sleeping on her breasts.
In vain, and for the cold youth mourn,
Who the pursuit of churlish beasts
Preferred to sleeping on her breasts.
Love makes so many hearts the prize
Of the bright Carlisle's conquering eyes
Which she regards no more than they
The tears of lesser beauties weigh.
So have I seen the lost clouds pour
Into the sea a useless shower;
And the vexed sailors curse the rain
For which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
Then, Phyllis, since our passions are
Governed by chance; and not the care,
But sport of Heaven, which takes delight
To look upon this Parthian fight
Of love, still flying, or in chase,
Never encountering face to face
No more to love we'll sacrifice,
But to the best of deities;
And let our hearts, which love disjoined,
By his kind mother be combined.
Of the bright Carlisle's conquering eyes
Which she regards no more than they
The tears of lesser beauties weigh.
So have I seen the lost clouds pour
Into the sea a useless shower;
And the vexed sailors curse the rain
For which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
Then, Phyllis, since our passions are
28
But sport of Heaven, which takes delight
To look upon this Parthian fight
Of love, still flying, or in chase,
Never encountering face to face
No more to love we'll sacrifice,
But to the best of deities;
And let our hearts, which love disjoined,
By his kind mother be combined.
| The Poems of Edmund Waller | |