The Minor Poems of Joseph Beaumont ... Edited from the autograph manuscript with introduction and notes by Eloise Robinson |
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Love
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 | The Minor Poems of Joseph Beaumont |  |
91
Love
When
LOVE
Had strove
Us to subdue,
Whose Crime
With Time
Still bolder grew;
Though Yee
Said Hee,
Will still
Rebell,
Yet I
Reveng'd will bee,
Sufficientlie
Upon my Selfe for You, & die.
Had strove
Us to subdue,
Whose Crime
With Time
Still bolder grew;
Though Yee
Said Hee,
Will still
Rebell,
Yet I
Reveng'd will bee,
Sufficientlie
Upon my Selfe for You, & die.
When LOVE
Was wove
And ty'd about
His Crosse
So close
That it forc'd out
A Flood
Of Blood;
I would
I could,
Sayes He,
Forever bleed,
So They who need
This Blood, would fill their Cup from Mee.
Was wove
And ty'd about
His Crosse
So close
That it forc'd out
A Flood
Of Blood;
I would
I could,
Sayes He,
Forever bleed,
So They who need
This Blood, would fill their Cup from Mee.
92
When LOVE
Above
Went up to sit
Upon
His Throne,
He rain'd from it
Whole Streames
Of Flames
On Those
He Chose
To goe
To every Place
Under Heavens Face
And there Love's fierie businesse doe.
Above
Went up to sit
Upon
His Throne,
He rain'd from it
Whole Streames
Of Flames
On Those
He Chose
To goe
To every Place
Under Heavens Face
And there Love's fierie businesse doe.
When LOVE
Doth move
His sparkling Eye
This way
We may
In it descry
A Light
More bright
Then Day's
Best Rayes,
Wherby
Our Hearts, although
Chill untill now,
Conceive an Holy Fervencie.
Doth move
His sparkling Eye
This way
We may
In it descry
A Light
More bright
Then Day's
Best Rayes,
Wherby
Our Hearts, although
Chill untill now,
Conceive an Holy Fervencie.
When LOVE
To prove
His noble Art,
His Bow
Doth draw
Against an Heart;
Alwayes
He slayes
With Wound
Profound,
But still
The Deaths they give
Doe make Us live
A sweeter Life, then that they spill.
To prove
His noble Art,
His Bow
Doth draw
Against an Heart;
Alwayes
He slayes
With Wound
Profound,
93
The Deaths they give
Doe make Us live
A sweeter Life, then that they spill.
When LOVE
A Grove
Had sought, wherin
He might
Delight
With Soules of Men,
No Trees
Could please
His Will,
Untill
He spyd
Faire Paradise,
And heere, He cryes,
My lovely Spouses shall abide.
A Grove
Had sought, wherin
He might
Delight
With Soules of Men,
No Trees
Could please
His Will,
Untill
He spyd
Faire Paradise,
And heere, He cryes,
My lovely Spouses shall abide.
| The Minor Poems of Joseph Beaumont | |