« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
Madness his sorrow, gout his cramp may he
The world's whole sap is sunk:
Of conscience, but of fame, and be
Anguish'd, not that 't was sin, but that 't was she: Compar'd with me, who am their epitaph.
And equal traitors be she and his sense.
Study me then, you who shall lovers be
In whom love wrought new alchymy.
A quintessence even from nothingness,
Of absence, darkness, death; things which art not.
If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two, Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if th' other do.
And though it in the centre sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam, It leans and hearkens after it, And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must, Like th' other foot, obliquely run, Thy firmness makes my circle just, And makes me end where I begun.
But, O, alas! so long, so far
WHERE, like a pillow on a bed,
Sat we on one another's breast.
By a fast balm, which thence did spring, Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread Our eyes upon one double string: So to engraft our hands as yet
Was all the means to make us one,
Was all our propagation.
Our souls (which, to advance our state,
Our bodies why do we forbear? They are ours, though not we, we are Th' intelligences, they the spheres, We owe them thanks because they thus Did us to us at first convey, Yielded their sense's force to us,
Nor are dross to us, but allay.
On man Heaven's influence works not so,
Though it to body first repair.
Spirits, as like souls as it can, Because such fingers need to knit
That subtle knot, which makes us man; So must pure lovers' souls descend T'affections and to faculties,
Which sense may reach and apprehend,
Weak men on love reveal'd may look ; Love's mysteries in souls do grow,
But yet the body is the book; And if some lover, such as we,
Have heard this dialogue of one, Let him still mark us, he shall see Small change, when we 're to bodies grown.
I LONG to talk with some old lover's ghost,
Sure they, which made him god, meant not so much,
But when an even flame two hearts did touch,
But every modern god will now extend
Rebel and atheist too, why murmur I
To what a cumbersome unwieldiness
And burthenous corpulence my love had grown; But that I did, to make it less,
And keep it in proportion,
Give it a diet, made it fced upon,
Above one sigh a-day I allow'd him not,
'T' was not a tear which he bad got. His drink was counterfeit, as was his meat; Her eyes, which roll towards all, weep not, but sweat.