 | The Land of Love |  |
Jealousy.
I.
A Palace, that is more uneasy far,Than those of Cruelty and Absence are.
Here constant Show'rs of Hail and Rain do flow,
Continual murm'ring Winds around do blow;
Eternal Thunders rowling in the Air,
And thick dark hanging Clouds the Day obscure;
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And renders Things which are not, to the Eyes.
Fantoms appear, by the dull gloomy Light,
That, with such subtil Art, delude the Sight,
That one can see no Object true or right.
II.
A thousand Serpents gnaw the Heart,As many Visions fill the Eyes;
And deaf to all that can Relief impart,
We hate the Counsel of the Wise;
And Sense, like Tales of Lunaticks, despise.
Faithless as couzen'd Maids by Men undone,
And obstinate as new Religion;
As full of Error, and false Notion too,
As dangerous and politick,
As vain and fanciful in all we do,
As hum'rous as a Beauty without Wit.
Thus rack'd's the Soul, as if it did conceal
Love's Secrets, which by tort'ring 'twould reveal.
Restless and wild, ranging each Field and Grove,
I meet the Author of my painful Love;
But still surrounded with a num'rous Train
Of Lovers, whom Love taught to sigh and faun
At her Approach, my Soul all trembling flies,
And tells my soft Resentments at my Eyes;
My Face all pale, my Steps unsteady fall,
And faint Confusion spreads it self o'er all.
I listen to each low-breath'd Word she says,
And the Return the happy Answerer pays.
When catching half the Sense, the rest invent,
And turn it still to what will most torment;
When by a Whisper she does ought impart,
'Tis mortal, like a Dagger to my Heart;
And ev'ry Smile, each Motion, Gesture, Sign,
In Favour of some Lover I explain.
When I am absent, in some Rival's Arms
I fancy she distributes all her Charms;
And if alone I find her, sighing cry,
Some happier Lover she expects than I:
So that I did not only jealous grow
Of all I saw, but all I fancy'd too.
I meet the Author of my painful Love;
But still surrounded with a num'rous Train
Of Lovers, whom Love taught to sigh and faun
At her Approach, my Soul all trembling flies,
And tells my soft Resentments at my Eyes;
My Face all pale, my Steps unsteady fall,
And faint Confusion spreads it self o'er all.
I listen to each low-breath'd Word she says,
And the Return the happy Answerer pays.
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And turn it still to what will most torment;
When by a Whisper she does ought impart,
'Tis mortal, like a Dagger to my Heart;
And ev'ry Smile, each Motion, Gesture, Sign,
In Favour of some Lover I explain.
When I am absent, in some Rival's Arms
I fancy she distributes all her Charms;
And if alone I find her, sighing cry,
Some happier Lover she expects than I:
So that I did not only jealous grow
Of all I saw, but all I fancy'd too.
| The Land of Love | |