 | Poems, with The tenth Satyre of Iuvenal Englished |  |
13
To his Friend Being in Love.
Aske Lover, ere thou dyest; let one poor breath
Steale from thy lips, to tell her of thy Death;
Doating Idolater! can silence bring
Thy Saint propitious? or will Cupid fling
One arrow for thy palenes? leave to trye
This silent Courtship of a sickly eye;
Witty to tyranny: She too well knowes
This but the incense of thy private vowes,
That breaks forth at thine eyes, and doth betray
The sacrifice thy wounded heart would pay;
Aske her, foole, aske her, if words cannot move,
The language of thy teares may make her love:
Steale from thy lips, to tell her of thy Death;
Doating Idolater! can silence bring
Thy Saint propitious? or will Cupid fling
One arrow for thy palenes? leave to trye
This silent Courtship of a sickly eye;
Witty to tyranny: She too well knowes
This but the incense of thy private vowes,
14
The sacrifice thy wounded heart would pay;
Aske her, foole, aske her, if words cannot move,
The language of thy teares may make her love:
Flow nimbly from me then; and when you fall
On her breasts warmer snow, O may you all,
By some strange Fate fixt there, distinctly lye
The much lov'd Volume of my Tragedy.
On her breasts warmer snow, O may you all,
By some strange Fate fixt there, distinctly lye
The much lov'd Volume of my Tragedy.
Where if you win her not, may this be read,
The cold that freez'd you so, did strike me dead.
The cold that freez'd you so, did strike me dead.
| Poems, with The tenth Satyre of Iuvenal Englished | |