Smile... even if reluctantly...

 

Song

Sweetest love, I do not go,
    For weariness of thee,
Nor in hope the world can show
    A fitter love for me ;
        But since that I
At the last must part, 'tis best,
Thus to use myself in jest
    By feigned deaths to die.

Yesternight the sun went hence,
    And yet is here to-day ;
He hath no desire nor sense,
    Nor half so short a way ;
        Then fear not me,
But believe that I shall make
Speedier journeys, since I take
    More wings and spurs than he.

O how feeble is man's power,
    That if good fortune fall,
Cannot add another hour,
    Nor a lost hour recall ;
        But come bad chance,
And we join to it our strength,
And we teach it art and length,
    Itself o'er us to advance.

When thou sigh'st, thou sigh'st not wind,
    But sigh'st my soul away ;
When thou weep'st, unkindly kind,
    My life's blood doth decay.
        It cannot be
That thou lovest me as thou say'st,
If in thine my life thou waste,
    That art the best of me.

Let not thy divining heart
    Forethink me any ill ;
Destiny may take thy part,
    And may thy fears fulfil.
        But think that we
Are but turn'd aside to sleep.
They who one another keep
    Alive, ne'er parted be.

 

Twickenham Garden 

BLASTED with sighs, and surrounded with tears,
    Hither I come to seek the spring,
And at mine eyes, and at mine ears,
    Receive such balms as else cure every thing.
    But O ! self-traitor, I do bring
The spider Love, which transubstantiates all,
And can convert manna to gall ;
And that this place may thoroughly be thought
True paradise, I have the serpent brought.

'Twere wholesomer for me that winter did
    Benight the glory of this place,
And that a grave frost did forbid
    These trees to laugh and mock me to my face ;
    But that I may not this disgrace
Endure, nor yet leave loving, Love, let me
Some senseless piece of this place be ;
Make me a mandrake, so I may grow here,
Or a stone fountain weeping out my year.

Hither with crystal phials, lovers, come,
    And take my tears, which are love's wine,
And try your mistress' tears at home,
    For all are false, that taste not just like mine.
    Alas ! hearts do not in eyes shine,
Nor can you more judge women's thoughts by tears,
Than by her shadow what she wears.
O perverse sex, where none is true but she,
Who's therefore true, because her truth kills me.

 

Sappho to Philaenis 

Where is that holy fire, which verse is said
 To have? is that enchanting force decayed?
Verse, that draws Nature's works, from Nature's law,
 Thee, her best work, to her work cannot draw.
Have my tears quenched my old poetic fire;
 Why quenched they not as well, that of desire?
Thoughts, my mind's creatures, often are with thee,
 But I, their maker, want their liberty.
Only thine image, in my heart, doth sit,
 But that is wax, and fires environ it.
My fires have driven, thine have drawn it hence;
 And I am robbed of picture, heart, and sense.
Dwells with me still mine irksome memory,
 Which, both to keep, and lose, grieves equally.
That tells me how fair thou art: thou art so fair,
 As, gods, when gods to thee I do compare,
Are graced thereby; and to make blind men see,
 What things gods are, I say they are like to thee.
For, if we justly call each silly man
 A little world, what shall we call thee then?
Thou art not soft, and clear, and straight, and fair,
 As down, as stars, cedars, and lilies are,
But thy right hand, and cheek, and eye, only
 Are like thy other hand, and cheek, and eye.
Such was my Phao awhile, but shall be never,
 As thou wast, art, and, oh, mayst thou be ever.
Here lovers swear in their idolatry,
 That I am such; but grief discolours me.
And yet I grieve the less, lest grief remove
 My beauty, and make me unworthy of thy love.
Plays some soft boy with thee, oh there wants yet
 A mutual feeling which should sweeten it.
His chin, a thorny hairy unevenness
 Doth threaten, and some daily change possess.
Thy body is a natural paradise,
 In whose self, unmanured, all pleasure lies,
Nor needs perfection; why shouldst thou then
 Admit the tillage of a harsh rough man?
Men leave behind them that which their sin shows,
 And are as thieves traced, which rob when it snows.
But of our dalliance no more signs there are,
 Than fishes leave in streams, or birds in air.
And between us all sweetness may be had;
 All, all that Nature yields, or Art can add.
My two lips, eyes, thighs, differ from thy two,
 But so, as thine from one another do;
And, oh, no more; the likeness being such,
 Why should they not alike in all parts touch?
Hand to strange hand, lip to lip none denies;
 Why should they breast to breast, or thighs to thighs?
Likeness begets such strange self flattery,
 That touching myself, all seems done to thee.
Myself I embrace, and mine own hands I kiss,
 And amorously thank myself for this.
Me, in my glass, I call thee; but alas,
 When I would kiss, tears dim mine eyes, and glass.
O cure this loving madness, and restore
 Me to me; thee, my half, my all, my more.
So may thy cheeks' red outwear scarlet dye,
 And their white, whiteness of the galaxy,
So may thy mighty, amazing beauty move
 Envy in all women, and in all men, love,
And so be change, and sickness, far from thee,
 As thou by coming near, keep'st them from me.