Ode 18. O that I could make her, whom I love best

Barnabe Barnes (1569?–1609)

O THAT I could make her, whom I love best,

Find in a face, with misery wrinkled;

Find in a heart, with sighs over ill-pined,

Her cruel hatred!

O that I could make her, whom I love best,

Find by my tears, what malady vexeth;

Find by my throbs, how forcibly love’s dart,

Wounds my decayed heart!

O that I could make her, whom I love best,

Tell with a sweet smile, that she respecteth

All my lamentings; and that, in her heart,

Mournfully she rues!

For my deserts were worthy the favours

Of such a fair Nymph, might she be fairer!

O then a firm faith, what may be richer?

Then to my love yield!

Then will I leave these tears to the waste rocks!

Then will I leave these sighs to the rough winds!

O that I could make her, whom I love best,

Pity my long smart!