The Poetry of George Wither :: :: University of Virginia Library

Come, my Muse, if thou disdain,
All my comforts are bereft me;
No delight doth now remain,
I nor friend nor flock have left me,
They are scattered on the plain.

Men, alas, are too severe,
And make scoffs at lovers' fortunes;
Women, hearted like the bear,
That regards not who importunes,
But doth all in pieces tear.

If I should my sorrows show
Unto rivers, springs, or fountains,
They are senseless of my woe;
So are groves, and rocks, and mountains.
Then, oh, whither shall I go?

Means of harbour me to shield
From despair, ah, know you any?
For nor city, grange, nor field,
Though they lend content to many,
Unto me can comfort yield.

I have wept and sighed too,
For compassion to make trial—
Yea, done all that words can do,
Yet have nothing but denial.
What way is there then to woo?

Shall I swear, protest, and vow?
So have I done most extremely.
Should I die? I know not how.
For from all attempts unseemly,
Love and Virtue keeps me now.

I have heard that Time prevails;
But I fear me 'tis a fable.
Time and all endeavour fails;
To bear more my heart's unable,
Yet none careth what it ails.

Lines to some have oped the door,
And got entrance for affection.
Words well-spoken much implore
By the gesture's good direction:
But a look doth ten times more.

'Tis the eye that only reads
To the heart love's deepest lectures.

By a moving look it pleads,
More than common-sense conjectures,
And a way to pity leads.

This I knowing did observe,
Both by words and looks complaining,
Yet for pity I may starve:
There's no hope of my obtaining
Till I better can deserve.

Yea, and he that thinks to win
By desert, may be deceived.
For they who have worthiest bin,
Of their right have been bereaved,
And a groom admitted in.

Wherefore, Muse, to thee I call;
Thou, since nothing else avails me,
Must redeem me from my thrall.
If thy sweet enchantment fails me,
Then adieu, love, life, and all.

2.

Tell me, my heart, what thoughts these pantings move?
My thoughts of Love.
What flames are these, that set thee so on fire?
Flames of Desire.
What means hast thou, contentment's flower to crop?
No means but Hope.

Yet let us feed on Hope, and hope the best.
For they amid their griefs are something blest,
Whose thoughts, and flames, and means, have such free scope
They may at once both Love, Desire, and Hope.

But say what fruit will love at last obtain?
Fruitless Disdain.
What will those hopes prove, which yet seem so fair?
Hopeless Despair.
What end shall run those passions out of breath?
An endless Death.
Oh, can there be such cruelty in Love?
And doth my fortune so ungentle prove,
She will no fruit, nor hope, nor end bequeath,
But cruellest Disdain, Despair, and Death?

Then what new study shall I now apply?
Study to Die.
How might I end my care, and die content?
Care to Repent.
And what good thoughts may make my end more holy?
Think on thy Folly.
Yes, so I will; and since my fate can give
No Hope, but ever without Hope to live,
My studies, cares, and thoughts, I'll all apply
To weigh my Folly well, Repent and Die.

3.

Sad eyes, what do you ail
To be thus ill-disposed?
Why doth your sleeping fail,
Now all men's else are closed?
Was't I, that ne'er did bow
In any servile duty,
And will you make me now
A slave to love and beauty?

What though thy mistress smile,
And in her love affects thee?
Let not her eye beguile,
I fear she disrespects thee.
Do not, poor heart, depend
On those vain thoughts that fill thee;
They'll fail thee in the end,
So must thy passions kill thee.

What hopes have I, that she
Will hold her favours ever,
When so few women be,
That constant can persever?
Whate'er she do protest,
When fortunes do deceive me,
Then she, with all the rest,
I fear, alas, will leave me.

Whilst youth and strength remains,
With art that may commend her,
Perhaps she nought disdains,
Her servant should attend her.

But it is one to ten,
If crosses overtake me,
She will not know me then,
But scorn and so forsake me.

Shall then in earnest truth
My careful eyes observe her?
Shall I consume my youth,
And short my time to serve her?
Shall I, beyond my strength,
Let passion's torments prove me,
To hear her say at length,
Away, I cannot love thee?

Oh, rather let me die
Whilst I thus gentle find her;
'Twere worse than death if I
Should find she proves unkinder.
One frown, though but in jest,
Or one unkindness feigned,
Would rob me of more rest
Than e'er could be regained.

But in her eyes I find
Such signs of pity moving,
She cannot be unkind,
Nor err, nor fail in loving.
And on her forehead this
Seems written to relieve me;
My heart no joy shall miss
That love, or she, can give me.

Which if I find, I vow,
My service shall persever:
The same that I am now,
I will continue ever.
No other's high degree,
Nor beauteous look shall change me.
My love shall constant be,
And no estate estrange me.

When other noble dames
By greater men attended,
Shall with their lives and names
Have all their glories ended,
With fairest queens shall she
Sit sharing equal glory,
And times to come shall be
Delighted with our story.

In spite of others' hates,
More honour I will do her,
Than those that with estates
And helps of Fortune woo her.
Yea, that true worth I spy,
Though monarchs strove to grace it,
They should not reach more high,
Than I dare hope to place it.

And though I never vaunt
What favours are possessed,
Much less content I want,
Than if they were expressed.

Let others make their mirth
To blab each kiss or toying,
I know no bliss on earth
Like secret love enjoying.

And this shall be the worst
Of all that can betide me;
If I, like some accurst,
Should find my hopes deride me,
My cares will not be long,
I know which way to mend them;
I'll think who did the wrong,
Sigh, break my heart, and end them.