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 |
 |
 |
|
To I. W. upon the death of his Mistress.
|
|
 | The works of Sr William Davenant |  |
To I. W. upon the death of his Mistress.
As the great Sons of War, that are rais'd highWith long Success and frequent Victory,
Grow to such lazy pride; they take it ill
Men still should put them to the paines to kill;
And would, at each sterne becken of the Eye,
Have the sad Foe, vaile Plumes take leave, and dye:
So thou; as if thy Sorrows had o'recome
Halfe the wise world, and struck all reason dumbe;
Cry'st, she is dead! and frown'st, because I now
Take not my Wreath, (the Treasure of my Brow)
Then hurle my self, and it, a Sacrifice
In hallow'd flames, to her departed Eyes.
Cause early Men, their Curtaines draw, and say
Behold the Sun is risen, now 'tis day;
Knowing thy Sun is set, thou swar'st their sight,
Is led by bus'ness t'a mistake of Light,
Lovers believe, if yet th' Almighty cou'd,
Doubt part of his so swift creation good;
To ease him of another Fiat, they
Can with their Mistress beames, make him a day:
To rule the Night, each Glance (they think) will fit
Planets to largest Spheares, if we admit
Their silly Priests (the Poets) be but by,
That love to sooth such faith t'idolatry.
But how have I transgress'd, thus to declame
'Gainst sorrow I should envy more then blame?
For what is he, though reverendly old,
And than a Mountaine Muscovite more cold;
Though he wants Wit, or Nature to desire;
Though his hard heart be Ir'n, his heart strings Wire:
Or what is he, though blind, and knows no good
Of love, but by an itching faith in's blood.
That when thy Tongue her beauty open layes
To mental view, and her soft minde displayes,
Will think thy grief was over-pay'd, or yet
Bate the world one Sigh, of so just a debt?
But she is gone! Repine now, if you dare;
Like Heav'ns unlicenc'd Fools, all punish'd are
For Nature as for crimes; yet cannot choose
But mourn for ev'ry excellence we loose;
233
To think no good was given us, but lent:
And a fond riddle in Philosophy,
Perswades us too; the virtuous never dye;
That all the ills, which we in absence find
Concern the Eye-sight onely, not the Mind:
But Lovers (whose wise Sences take delight
In warm contaction, and in real sight)
Are not with lean imagination fed,
Or satisfi'd, with thinking on the Dead.
'Tis fit we seek her then; but he that finds
Her out, must enter friendship with the Winds;
Enquire their dwelling, and uncertain walks;
Whither they blow, from their forsaken Stalks
Flowers that are gone, ere they are smelt? or how
Dispose o'th sweeter Blossoms of the Bough?
For she (the Treasuress of these) is fled,
Not having the dull leasure to be dead;
But t'hoord this Wealth; return, and this wealth bring
Still vary'd, and increas'd in ev'ry Spring.
| The works of Sr William Davenant | |