The poems of John Wilmot: Earl of Rochester :: :: University of Virginia Library

Alex.
There sighs not on the Plain
So lost a Swain as I;
Scorcht't up with Love, frozen with Disdain.
Of killing Sweetness I complain.

Streph.
If 'tis Corinna, die.

II

Since first my dazled Eyes were thrown
On that bewitching Face,
Like ruin'd Birds, rob'd of their Young,
Lamenting, frighted, and alone,
I fly from place to place.

III

Fram'd by some Cruel Powers above,
So nice she is, and fair;
None from undoing can remove,
Since all, who are not Blind, must Love;
Who are not vain, Despair.

Alex.
The Gods no sooner give a Grace,
But fond of their own Art,
Severely jealous, ever place
To guard the Glories of a Face,
A Dragon in the Heart.

V

Proud and ill-natur'd Powers they are,
Who peevish to Mankind,
For their own Honour's sake, with Care,
Make a sweet Form divinely Fair,
And add a Cruel Mind.

Streph.
Since she's insensible of Love,
By Honour taught to hate,
If we, forc'd by Decrees above,
Must sensible to Beauty prove,
How Tyrannous is Fate?

Alex.

I to the Nymph have never nam'd
The Cause of all my pain.

Streph.

Such Bashfulness may well be blam'd;
For since to serve we're not asham'd,
Why should she blush to Reign?

Alex.

But if her haughty Heart despise
My humble proffer'd One,
The just Compassion she denies,
I may obtain from other's Eyes;
Hers are not Fair alone.

IX

Devouring Flames require new Food;
My Heart's consum'd almost:
New Fires must kindle in her Blood,
Or Mine go out, and that's as good.

Streph.
Would'st live, when Love is lost?

X

Be dead before thy Passion dies;
For if thou should'st survive,
What Anguish would the Heart surprize,
To see her Flames begin to rise,
And Thine no more Alive.

Alex.
Rather what Pleasure shou'd I meet
In my Tryumphant scorn,
To see my Tyrant at my Feet;
Whil'st taught by her, unmov'd I sit
A Tyrant in my Turn.

Streph.
Ungentle Shepherd, cease for shame;
Which way can you pretend
To merit so Divine a Flame,
Who to dull Life make a mean Claim,
When Love is at an End?

XIII

As Trees are by their Bark embrac'd,
Love to my Soul doth cling;
When torn by th'Herd's greedy Taste,
The injur'd Plants feel they're defac't,
They wither in the Spring.

XIV

My rifled Love would soon retire,
Dissolving into Aire,
Shou'd I that Nymph cease to admire,
Blest in whose Arms I will expire,
Or at her Feet despair.