An age in her embraces passed | |
Would seem a winter’s day | |
Where life and light with envious haste | |
Are torn and snatched away. | |
| 5 | But oh, how slowly minutes roll |
When absent from her eyes | |
That feed my love, which is my soul, | |
It languishes and dies. | |
For then no more a soul but shade, | |
| 10 | It mournfully does move |
And haunts my breast, by absence made | |
The living tomb of love. | |
Whose lovesick fancy raves | |
| 15 | On shades of souls and heaven knows what: |
Short ages live in graves. | |
Whene’er those wounding eyes so full | |
Of sweetness you did see, | |
Had you not been profoundly dull, | |
| 20 | You had gone mad like me. |
Nor censure us, you who perceive | |
My best beloved and me | |
Sigh and lament, complain and grieve, | |
You think we disagree. | |
| 25 | Alas! ’tis sacred jealousy, |
Love raised to an extreme, | |
The only proof ’twixt her and me | |
We love and do not dream. | |
Fantastic fancies fondly move | |
| 30 | And in frail joys believe, |
Taking false pleasure for true love, | |
But pain can ne’er deceive. | |
Kind jealous doubts, tormenting fears, | |
And anxious cares, when past, | |
| 35 | Prove our hearts’ treasure fixed and dear, |
And make us blest at last. |