The History of Polindor and Flostella With Other Poems. By I. H. [i.e. John Harington] The third Edition, Revised and much Enlarged |
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 | The History of Polindor and Flostella |  |
At which turn'd raging, furious, Hour of doom!
Strange, horrid'st Spectacle, that Midnights Womb
Ere swell'd with; cries: call'd on her fairest Clay,
Cry'd, 'Twas Polindor call'd. Each needfull way
Mean while Rufin, long skilfull'st Artist, us'd;
Beg'd heavens Ayd, hot, powerfull'st Spirits infus'd
For th' brain (glass born about him) since appear'd
Yet no Deaths wound, nor bruise; most strangling fear'd
(And strangled still those Off-springs prov'd, it seems,
To Pluto, quart'ring next their prostrate Limbs)
Rub'd, bow'd her body oft. Ah horrour! (crying
Th' ore-whelm'd Polindor here) you never-dying
Powers, O blast me too, my Life, since take
My Souls Joy comfort from me; rack! Souls Rack!
All worth, sweet's vanish'd: Throughly bath'd rufin
Her Brest with soveraign Cordiall Juyce ('twas sin
Conceiv'd, when found without it) chaf'd her bow'd
Whilst th' Other, though, grand chance cold Water allow
(Theeves pitcher by) some drops were thrown upon her
Dire task! Polindor still, still calling on her,
Loud'st voyce, Flostella, dear
Flostella; O,
Why tread'st thou this vile earthly Mass below?
Its Gem, choyce treasure gone, she soar'd above!
Sweet'st, fairest Soul! when now, discern'd to move;
He calling still, Flostella, Dearest: Rare
Th' whole prospect, sight t'have seen that World of fair,
Of sweet, and lovely as 'twere new-created,
New beauteous-Soul'd; each wonder; grace restated
In Cheeks, Lips, gallant'st Forhead; those Sun-eyes
Break forth their Morning-lids, while th' eastern Skies
Sol brake as 'twere to view't, just then; though glanced
That Day-break but from these, Polindor fancy'd
(His day of joyes at least) most fresh and warm
Ere long she growes: Heav'ns goodness, and that Charm
Polindor's Voyce have crown'd, reblest the World.
Strange, horrid'st Spectacle, that Midnights Womb
Ere swell'd with; cries: call'd on her fairest Clay,
Cry'd, 'Twas Polindor call'd. Each needfull way
Mean while Rufin, long skilfull'st Artist, us'd;
Beg'd heavens Ayd, hot, powerfull'st Spirits infus'd
For th' brain (glass born about him) since appear'd
Yet no Deaths wound, nor bruise; most strangling fear'd
(And strangled still those Off-springs prov'd, it seems,
To Pluto, quart'ring next their prostrate Limbs)
Rub'd, bow'd her body oft. Ah horrour! (crying
Th' ore-whelm'd Polindor here) you never-dying
Powers, O blast me too, my Life, since take
My Souls Joy comfort from me; rack! Souls Rack!
All worth, sweet's vanish'd: Throughly bath'd rufin
Her Brest with soveraign Cordiall Juyce ('twas sin
Conceiv'd, when found without it) chaf'd her bow'd
Whilst th' Other, though, grand chance cold Water allow
(Theeves pitcher by) some drops were thrown upon her
Dire task! Polindor still, still calling on her,
113
Why tread'st thou this vile earthly Mass below?
Its Gem, choyce treasure gone, she soar'd above!
Sweet'st, fairest Soul! when now, discern'd to move;
He calling still, Flostella, Dearest: Rare
Th' whole prospect, sight t'have seen that World of fair,
Of sweet, and lovely as 'twere new-created,
New beauteous-Soul'd; each wonder; grace restated
In Cheeks, Lips, gallant'st Forhead; those Sun-eyes
Break forth their Morning-lids, while th' eastern Skies
Sol brake as 'twere to view't, just then; though glanced
That Day-break but from these, Polindor fancy'd
(His day of joyes at least) most fresh and warm
Ere long she growes: Heav'ns goodness, and that Charm
Polindor's Voyce have crown'd, reblest the World.
| The History of Polindor and Flostella | |