| |
| SINCE she must go, and I must mourn, come night, | |
| Environ me with darkness, whilst I write; | |
| Shadow that hell unto me, which alone | |
| I am to suffer when my love 1 is gone. | |
| Alas! the darkest magic cannot do it, 2 | 5 |
| And that great hell, to boot, are shadows to it. | |
| Should Cynthia quit thee, Venus, and each star, | |
| It would not form one thought dark as mine are. | |
| I could lend them obscureness now, and say | |
| Out of myself, there should be no more day. | 10 |
| Such is already my self-want of sight, | |
| Did not the fire within me force a light. | |
| O Love, that fire and darkness should be mix’d, | |
| Or to thy triumphs such strange torments fix’d! | |
| Is it because thou thyself art blind, that we, | 15 |
| Thy martyrs, must no more each other see? | |
| Or takest thou pride to break us on thy wheel, | |
| And view old Chaos in the pains we feel? | |
| Or have we left undone some mutual rite, | |
| That thus with parting thou seek’st us to spite? | 20 |
| No, no. The fault is mine, impute it to me, | |
| Or rather to conspiring destiny, | |
| Which, since I loved in jest before, 3 decreed | |
| That I should suffer, when I loved indeed; | |
| And therefore, sooner now than I can say, | 25 |
| I saw the golden fruit, ’tis rapt away; | |
| Or as I’d watch’d one drop in the vast stream, | |
| And I left wealthy only in a dream. | |
| Yet, Love, thou’rt blinder than myself in this, | |
| To vex my dove-like friend for my amiss; | 30 |
| And where one sad truth may expiate | |
| Thy wrath, to make her fortune run my fate. | |
| So blinded justice doth, when favourites fall, | |
| Strike them, their house, their friends, their favourites all. | |
| Was’t not enough that thou didst dart thy fires | 35 |
| Into our bloods, inflaming our desires, | |
| And madest us sigh, and blow, and pant, and burn, | |
| And then thyself into our flames didst turn? | |
| Was’t not enough that thou didst hazard us | |
| To paths in love so dark and dangerous, | 40 |
| And those so ambush’d round with household spies, | |
| And over all thy husband’s towering eyes, | |
| Inflamed with th’ ugly sweat of jealousy; | |
| Yet went we not still on in constancy? | |
| Have we for this kept guards, like spy on spy? 4 | 45 |
| Had correspondence whilst the foe stood by? | |
| Stolen, more to sweeten them, our many blisses | |
| Of meetings, conference, embracements, kisses? | |
| Shadow’d with negligence our best respects? 5 | |
| Varied our language through all dialects | 50 |
| Of becks, winks, looks, and often under boards | |
| Spoke dialogues with our feet far from our 6 words? | |
| Have we proved all the secrets of our art, | |
| Yea, thy pale inwards, and thy panting heart? | |
| And, after all this passed purgatory, | 55 |
| Must sad divorce make us the vulgar story? | |
| First let our eyes be riveted quite through 7 | |
| Our turning brain, and both our lips grow to; | |
| Let our arms clasp like ivy, and our fear | |
| Freeze us together, that we may stick here, | 60 |
| Till Fortune, that would ruin us with the deed, | |
| Strain his eyes open, and yet make them bleed. | |
| For Love it cannot be, whom hitherto | |
| I have accused, should such a mischief do. | |
| O Fortune, thou’rt not worth my least exclaim, | 65 |
| And plague enough thou hast in thy own name. | |
| Do thy great worst; my friend and I have charms, 8 | |
| Though not against thy strokes, against thy harms. | |
| Rend us in sunder; 9 thou canst not divide | |
| Our bodies so, but that our souls are tied, | 70 |
| And we can love by letters still and gifts, | |
| And thoughts and dreams; love never wanteth shifts. | |
| I will not look upon the quickening sun, | |
| But straight her beauty to my sense shall run; | |
| The air shall note her soft, the fire, most pure; | 75 |
| Waters suggest her clear, and the earth sure. | |
| Time shall not lose our passages; the spring, | |
| How fresh our love was in the beginning; | |
| The summer, how it ripen’d 10 in the year; | |
| And autumn, what our golden harvests were; | 80 |
| The winter I’ll not think on to spite thee, | |
| But count it a lost season; so shall she. | |
| And dearest friend, since we must part, drown night 11 | |
| With hope of day—burdens well borne are light—; | |
| The cold and darkness longer hang somewhere, | 85 |
| Yet Phœbus equally lights all the sphere; | |
| And what we cannot in like portion pay 12 | |
| The world enjoys in mass, and so we may. | |
| Be then ever yourself, and let no woe | |
| Win on your health, your youth, your beauty; so | 90 |
| Declare yourself base Fortune’s enemy, | |
| No less be your contempt than her inconstancy; 13 | |
| That I may grow enamour’d on your mind, | |
| When mine own thoughts I here neglected find. | |
| And this to the comfort of my dear I vow, | 95 |
| My deeds shall still be what my deeds are now; | |
| The poles shall move to teach me ere I start; | |
| And when I change my love, I’ll change my heart. | |
| Nay, if I wax but cold in my desire, | |
| Think, heaven hath motion lost, and the world, fire. | 100 |
| Much more I could, but many words have made | |
| That oft suspected which men most persuade. 14 | |
| Take therefore all in this; I love so true, | |
| As I will never look for less in you. | |
