 | Collected Poems of Thomas Parnell |  |
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Poems from Pancharis, Queen of Love, 1721
Chloris appearing in a Looking Glass.
I
Oft have I seen a Piece of Art,Of Light and Shade, the Mixture fine,
Speak all the Passions of the Heart,
And shew true Life in every Line.
II
But what is this before my Eyes,With every Feature, every Grace,
That strikes with Love and with Surprize,
And gives me all the Vital Face.
III
It is not Chloris, for beholdThe shifting Phantom comes and goes;
And when 'tis here 'tis pale and cold,
Nor any Female Softness knows.
IV
But 'tis her Image, for I feelThe very Pains that Chloris gives;
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I see what in my Bosom lives.
V
Oh cou'd I but the Picture save!'Tis drawn by her own matchless Skill;
Nature the lively Colours gave,
And she need only Look to Kill.
VI
Ah! Fair-one, will it not suffice,That I shou'd once, your Victim lye;
Unless you multiply your Eyes,
And strive to make me doubly Dye.
On the Castle of Dublin, Anno 1715.
This House and Inhabitants both well agree,And resemble each other as near can be;
One half is decay'd, and in want of a Prop,
The other new built, but not finish'd a-top.
Love in Disguise.
I
To stifle Passion is no easy Thing,A Heart in Love is always on the Wing;
The bold Betrayer flutters still,
And fans the Breath prepar'd to tell:
It melts the Tongue, and tunes the Throat,
And moves the Lips to form the Note;
And when the Speech is lost,
It then sends out its Ghost,
A little Sigh,
To say we dye.
'Tis strange the Air that Cools, a Flame shou'd prove,
But wonder not, it is the Air of Love.
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II
Yet Chloris I can make my Love look well,And cover bleeding Wounds I can't conceal,
My Words such artful Accents break,
You think I rather act than speak:
My Sighs enliven'd thro' a Smile,
Your unsuspecting Thoughts beguile;
My Eyes are vary'd so,
You can't their Wishes know:
And I'm so gay,
You think I play.
Happy Contrivance! such as can't be priz'd,
To Live in Love, and yet to Live disguis'd.
On a Lady with a foul Breath.
Art thou alive? It cannot be,There's so much Rottenness in Thee,
Corruption only is in Death;
And what's more Putrid than thy Breath?
Think not you Live, because you Speak,
For Graves such hollow Sounds can make;
And Respiration can't suffice,
For Vapours do from Caverns rise:
From Thee such noisom Stenches come,
Thy Mouth betrays thy Breast a Tomb.
Thy Body is a Corpse that goes,
By Magick rais'd from its Repose:
A Pestilence that walks by Day,
But falls at Night to Worms and Clay.
But I will to my Chloris run,
Who will not let me be undone:
The Sweets her Virgin-Breath contains,
Are fitted to remove my Pains;
There will I healing Nectar sip,
And to be sav'd, approach her Lip,
Tho' if I touch the matchless Dame,
I'm sure to burn with inward Flame.
Thus when I wou'd one Danger shun,
I'm strait upon another thrown:
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Yet in that Cure's a New Disease.
But Love, tho' fatal, still can bless,
And greater Dangers hide the less;
I'll go where Passion bids me fly,
And chuse my Death, since I must Dye;
As Doves pursu'd by Birds of Prey,
Venture with milder Man to stay.
On the Number Three.
Beauty rests not in one fix'd Place,But seems to reign in every Face;
'Tis nothing sure, but Fancy then,
In various Forms bewitching Men;
Or is it Shape and Colour fram'd,
Proportion just, and woman nam'd?
If Fancy only rul'd in Love,
Why shou'd it then so strongly move?
Or why shou'd all that Look, agree
To own its mighty Pow'r in three?
In Three it shews a different Face,
Each shining with peculiar Grace;
Kindred a Native Likeness gives,
Which pleases, as in All it lives;
And where the Features disagree,
We praise the dear Variety.
Then Beauty surely ne'er was yet,
So much unlike it self and so complete.
Epigram.
Haud facile emergunt, quorum virtutibus obstat
Res angusta Domi ------
Res angusta Domi ------
The greatest Gifts that Nature does bestow,
Can't unassisted to Perfection grow:
A scanty Fortune clips the Wings of Fame,
And checks the Progress of a rising Name;
Each dastard Vertue drags a Captive's Chain,
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Domestick Cares sit hard upon the Mind,
And cramp those Thoughts which shou'd be unconfin'd;
The Cries of Poverty alarm the Soul,
Abate its Vigour, its Designs controul:
The Stings of Want inflict the Wounds of Death,
And Motion always ceases with the Breath.
The Love of Friends is found a languid Fire,
That glares but faintly, and will soon expire;
Weak is its Force, nor can its Warmth be great,
A feeble Light begets a feeble Heat.
Wealth is the Fuel that must feed the Flame,
It dyes in Rags, and scarce deserves a Name.
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