The works of Sr William Davenant ... Consisting of Those which were formerly Printed, and Those which he design'd for the Press: Now published Out of the Authors Originall Copies |
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To Clelia.
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 | The works of Sr William Davenant |  |
To Clelia.
To see, and to converse with you, must moveThe nicest Eie, and coldest Heart to Love:
And yet your wisest Lover needs must see,
That all his Cordialls of Philosophie
Can make him live no longer then you please:
The Griefe you make none but your self can ease.
Not that you Murder by your tongue, or eie,
But that they gently urge poore men to die:
For since (the Spring of Justice) Nature can
Contrive unjustly to enrich one Man,
And leave a VVorld to beg: VVho can desire
To live and languish in a lasting Fire?
I'le rather haste to the Elisian Fields,
And there prepare what that blest Mansion yields.
Of Flowers, and Fragrancies to wellcome you,
Where is no danger what your eies can doe,
Where Fire hath only heate enough to warme,
Water but serves to coole, not drowne or harme,
Where harshest passions melt to Charitie;
Where all your Slaves shall meet their Jubilie;
Where we shall dread no Heavenly beauties force,
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Could you complaine if Nature only had
Your Eyes and Cheeks, and Forehead richly clad
In her best Liveries, Roses, Lillies hue?
But to all these she hath bestow'd on you
So rich, so great, so eminent a Soule,
As may suffice all Empires to controule;
A Soul so farr beyond all outward parts,
As these but court the Eie, that conquers Hearts.
A Soul so farr exceeding your own Sex,
It may the wisest of Mankind perplex.
But, for all this, faire Clelia, think not I
Will fondly whine away my breath and die;
No, though you make me not the least returne,
Or tell me, though I die, you will not mourne;
Nay, though you smiling, place me in the Traine
Of that vast number your faire eyes have slaine.
But least that humour which hath kept me free
From other Beauties, should not prove to be
Of force enough to save me from your Charmes,
('Gainst which herhaps my best defensive Armes
May prove too weak) I only beg this boone;
Treat me but ill I cannot be undone.
Be sure to use such cold indifference
I may not see a glimpse, or least pretence
Of hope that I can ever love again:
And, if you find that will not cure my paine,
Goe on to slight me, if that will not doe,
Proceed to be a little rude, and scorne me too:
If, after this, your Charmes have pow'r to kill,
In my last pangs I will not wish you ill.
| The works of Sr William Davenant | |