Poems and Songs by Thomas Flatman. The Fourth Edition with many Additions and Amendments |
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Against THOUGHTS.
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 | Poems and Songs |  |
Against THOUGHTS.
I.
Intolerable Racks!Distend my Soul no more,
Loud as the Billows when they roar,
More dreadful than the hideous thunder cracks.
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My best contents, around me stand,
Each like a Fury, with a Torch in hand;
And fright me from the hopes of one good Day.
II.
When I seclude my self, and sayHow frolick will I be,
Unfetter'd from my Company
I'le bath me in felicity!
In come these Guests,
Which Harpy like defile my Feasts:
Oh the damn'd Dialogues, the cursed talk
'Twixt us (my Thoughts) along a sullen walk.
III.
You, like the poysonous WineThe Gallants quaff
To make 'em laugh,
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From thence the tortures of a Calenture,
Fool me with feign'd refections, till I lie
Stark raving in a Bedlam extasie.
IV.
Do I dreadThe Starry Throne and Majesty
Of that High God,
Who batters Kingdoms with an Iron Rod,
And makes the Mountains stagger with a Nod?
That sits upon the glorious Bow,
Smiling at changes here below.
These goad me to his grand Tribunal, where
They tell me I with horror must appear,
And antedate amazements by grim fear.
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V.
Would I descryThose happy Souls blest Mansions 'bove the Sky,
Invisible by mortal eye,
And in a noble speculation trace
A journey to that shinning place?
Can I afford a sigh or two,
Or breath a Wish that I might thither go:
These clip my Plumes, and chill my blazing Love
That, O, I cannot, cannot soar above.
VI.
The Fire that shinesIn Subterranean Mines,
The Crystall'd streams,
The Sulphur Rocks that glow upon
The torrid banks of Phlegeton;
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Bolted and barr'd up in the deeps;
Black Caves wide Chasms which who see confess
Types of the Pit so deep, so bottomless!
These mysteries, though I fain would not behold,
You to my view unfold:
Like an Old Roman Criminal, to the high
Tarpeian Hill you force me up, that I
May so be hurried headlong down, and Die.
VII.
Mention not thenThe strength, and faculties of men;
Whose Arts cannot expell
These anguishes, this bosome-Hell
When down my aking head I lay,
In hopes to slumber them away;
Perchance I do beguile
The Tyranny a while,
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And reassault me with a trebled pain:
Nay though I sob in Fetters, they
Spare me not then; perplex me each sad day,
And whom a very Turk would pity, slay.
VIII.
Hence, hence, (my Jaylors) Thoughts be gone,Let my Tranquillities alone.
Shall I imbrace
A Crocodile, or place
My choice affections on the fatal Dart,
That stabs me to the heart?
I hate your curst proximity,
Worse than the venom'd arrows heads that be
Cramm'd in the quivers of my Destiny.
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