 | Poems (1872) |  |
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XXVI. AN ELEGIE TO MRS. BOULSTRED.
Shall I goe force an elegy? abuseMy witt? and breake the hymen of my Muse
For one poore hower's love? deserues it such
Which serues not mee to doe on her as much?
Or if it would, I would that fortune shunn—
Who would be rich to be soe soon vndone?
The beggar's best that wealth doth never know,
And but to shew it him increaseth woe.
But we two may enioy an hower, when never
It returns, who would have a losse for ever?
Nor can soe short a loue, if true, but bring
A half-hower's feare with thought of loosing.
Before it all howers were hope, and all are,
That shall come after it, yeares of dispaire.
This ioy brings this doubt, whether it were more
To haue enioyed it, or haue dy'de before.
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Which I think Adam felt more than his race;
Nor need these angels any other Hell,
It is enough for them from Heaven they fell.
Beside, conquest in love is all in all,
That when I list shee under me may fall;
And for this turne, both for delight and view
I'll haue a Succuba as good as you.
But when these toyes are past, and or blood ends,
The best injoying is, wee still are freindes.
Loue can but be friendship's outside, there two
Beauties differ as minds and bodyes do.
Thus I this good still fayne would be to take,
Vnles one hower another happy make;
Or that I might forgett it instantly;
Or in that blest estate that I might dye.
But why doe I thus trauaile in the skill
Of dispos'd Poetry, and perchance spill
My fortune, or undoe myself in sport
By hauing but that daungerous name in Court?
I'll leave, and since I doe your poet proue,
Keepe you my lines as secret as my love.
| Poems (1872) | |