 | Poems |  |
The Tombe.
When, cruel Fair one, I am slain
By thy disdain,
And, as a Trophy of thy scorn,
To some old tombe am born,
Thy fetters must their power bequeath
To those of death;
Nor can thy flame immortal burn,
Like monumental fires within an urn;
Thus freed from thy proud Empire, I shall prove
There is more liberty in Death then Love.
By thy disdain,
And, as a Trophy of thy scorn,
To some old tombe am born,
Thy fetters must their power bequeath
To those of death;
Nor can thy flame immortal burn,
Like monumental fires within an urn;
27
There is more liberty in Death then Love.
And when forsaken Lovers come
To see my tombe,
Take heed thou mix not with the croud,
And (as a Victor) proud
To view the spoils thy beauty made
Presse near my shade,
Lest thy too cruel breath or name
Should fan my ashes back into a flame,
And thou, devour'd by this revengeful fire,
His sacrifice, who dy'd as thine, expire.
To see my tombe,
Take heed thou mix not with the croud,
And (as a Victor) proud
To view the spoils thy beauty made
Presse near my shade,
Lest thy too cruel breath or name
Should fan my ashes back into a flame,
And thou, devour'd by this revengeful fire,
His sacrifice, who dy'd as thine, expire.
But if cold Earth, or Marble must
Conceal my dust,
Whilst hid in some dark ruines, I
Dumb and forgotten lie,
The pride of all thy victory
Will sleep with me;
And they who should attest thy Glory,
Will, or forget, or not believe this story:
Then to increase thy Triumph, let me rest,
Since by thine Eye slain, buried in thy Breast.
Conceal my dust,
Whilst hid in some dark ruines, I
Dumb and forgotten lie,
The pride of all thy victory
Will sleep with me;
And they who should attest thy Glory,
Will, or forget, or not believe this story:
Then to increase thy Triumph, let me rest,
Since by thine Eye slain, buried in thy Breast.
| Poems | |