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An age in her embraces passed Would seem a winter's day, Where life and light with envious haste Are torn and snatched away. 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, It mournfully does move And haunts my breast, by absence made The living tomb of love. You wiser men, despise me not Whose lovesick fancy raves On shades of souls, and heaven knows what: Short age live in graves. Whene'er those wounding eyes, so full Of sweetness, you did see, Had you not been profoundly dull, 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. 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 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, Prove our hearts' treasure fixed and dear, And make us blest at last. - John Wilmot |
