 | Poems (1872) |  |
257
THE PORTRAIT.
Painter, while there thou sitst drawing the sight
That her unkind regard hath dyed in grief,
Dip black thy pensill, and forgett the white
That thou bestow'st on lookes that win beliefe;
And when thy worke is done, then lett her see
The humble image of her crueltie.
That her unkind regard hath dyed in grief,
Dip black thy pensill, and forgett the white
That thou bestow'st on lookes that win beliefe;
And when thy worke is done, then lett her see
The humble image of her crueltie.
Or if t'unfold the sence of her disdaine
Exceeds the narrow limitts of thyne art,
Then blott thy table, and forgett thy paine,
Till thou hast learn'd the coulours of her hart;
And lett her then no sight or other show
But that void place where thou hast painted woe.
Exceeds the narrow limitts of thyne art,
Then blott thy table, and forgett thy paine,
Till thou hast learn'd the coulours of her hart;
And lett her then no sight or other show
But that void place where thou hast painted woe.
Tell her that those whome th'Heauens' inuries
Haue kept at sea in wandering disperation
Sitt downe at length, and brag of misseries,
The highest measure of their ostentation.
So hath she tost me till my latest glorie
Is her content, and my affliction's storie.
Haue kept at sea in wandering disperation
Sitt downe at length, and brag of misseries,
The highest measure of their ostentation.
So hath she tost me till my latest glorie
Is her content, and my affliction's storie.
Tell her that tears and sighs shall never cease
With flowing streames, to sinck her in conceite,
Till at the length shee pitty or release
The gentle hart that on her eyes did waite,
Pure lights imbracing in each other's scope
The strength of faith and weaknesses of hope.
With flowing streames, to sinck her in conceite,
Till at the length shee pitty or release
The gentle hart that on her eyes did waite,
Pure lights imbracing in each other's scope
The strength of faith and weaknesses of hope.
258
Thus doe I breathe forth my unhappines,
And play with rimes, as if my thoughts were free;
Wherein if I had power but to expresse
Her name, the world would with my griefs agree.
But, idle veine! consume thyself in this,
That I have sworn to bury what shee is.
And play with rimes, as if my thoughts were free;
Wherein if I had power but to expresse
Her name, the world would with my griefs agree.
But, idle veine! consume thyself in this,
That I have sworn to bury what shee is.
| Poems (1872) | |