 | Poems |  |
49
Claim to Love.
Alasse!
alasse! thou turnst in vain
Thy beauteous Face away,
Which (like young Sorcerers) rais'd a Pain
Above its Power to lay.
Thy beauteous Face away,
Which (like young Sorcerers) rais'd a Pain
Above its Power to lay.
Love moves not as thou turnst thy Look,
But here doth firmly rest;
He long ago thy Eyes forsook
To revel in my Breast.
But here doth firmly rest;
He long ago thy Eyes forsook
To revel in my Breast.
Thy Power on him why hop'st thou more
Then his on me should be,
The Claim thou lay'st to him is poor
To that he owns from Me.
Then his on me should be,
The Claim thou lay'st to him is poor
To that he owns from Me.
His Substance in my Heart excells,
His shadow in thy Sight;
Fire where it burns more truly dwells,
Then where it scatters Light.
His shadow in thy Sight;
Fire where it burns more truly dwells,
Then where it scatters Light.
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