Strephon and Alexis. Lord Rochester, 1674
Alexis
There sighs not on the plain
So lost a swain as I;
Scorch'd up with love, froze with disdain,
Of killing sweetness I complain.
If 'tis Corinna, die.
Since first my dazzled eyes were thrown
On that bewitching face,
Like ruin'd birds robb'd of their young,
Lamenting, frighted, and undone,
I fly from place to place.
Fram'd by some cruel powers above,
So nice she is, and fair;
None from undoing can remove,
Since all, who are not blind, must love;
Who are not vain, despair.
The gods no sooner give a grace,
But, fond of their own art,
Severely jealous, ever place,
To guard the glories of a face,
A dragon in the heart.
Proud and ill-natur'd powers they are,
Who, peevish to mankind,
For their own honour's sake,
with care
Make a sweet form divinely fair:
Then add a cruel mind.
Strephon:
Since she's insensible of love,
By honour taught to hate;
If we, forc'd by decrees above,
Must sensible to beauty prove,
How tyrannous is Fate!
I to the nymph have never nam'd
The cause of all my pain.
Such bashfulness may well be blam'd;
For, since to serve we're not asham'd,
Why should she blush to reign!
Strephon
.
But, if her haughty heart despise
My humble proffer' d one,
The just compassion she denies
I may obtain from other's eyes;
Her's are not fair alone.
Devouring flames require new food;
My heart's consum'd almost:
New fires must kindle in her blood;
Or mine go out, and that's as good.
Alexis
Would'st live when love is lost?
Be dead before thy passion dies;
For if thou should'st survive,
What anguish would thy heart surprise,
To see her flames begin to rise,
And thine no more alive?
Rather what pleasure should I meet
In my triumphant scorn,
To see my tyrant at my feet;
While, taught by her, unmov'd I sit
A tyrant in my turn.
Ungentle shepherd! cease, for shame,
Which way can you pretend
To merit so divine a flame,
Who to dull life make a mean claim,
When love is at an end?
As trees are by their bark embrac'd,
Love to my soul doth cling:
When torn by the herd's greedy taste,
The injur'd plants feel they're defac'd,
They wither in the spring.
My rifled love would soon retire,
Dissolving into air,
Should I that nymph cease to admire,
Bless'd in whose arms I will expire,
Or at her feet despair.
There sighs not on the plain
So lost a swain as I;
Scorch'd up with love, froze with disdain,
Of killing sweetness I complain.
If 'tis Corinna, die.
Since first my dazzled eyes were thrown
On that bewitching face,
Like ruin'd birds robb'd of their young,
Lamenting, frighted, and undone,
I fly from place to place.
Fram'd by some cruel powers above,
So nice she is, and fair;
None from undoing can remove,
Since all, who are not blind, must love;
Who are not vain, despair.
The gods no sooner give a grace,
But, fond of their own art,
Severely jealous, ever place,
To guard the glories of a face,
A dragon in the heart.
Proud and ill-natur'd powers they are,
Who, peevish to mankind,
For their own honour's sake,
with care
Make a sweet form divinely fair:
Then add a cruel mind.
Strephon:
Since she's insensible of love,
By honour taught to hate;
If we, forc'd by decrees above,
Must sensible to beauty prove,
How tyrannous is Fate!
I to the nymph have never nam'd
The cause of all my pain.
Such bashfulness may well be blam'd;
For, since to serve we're not asham'd,
Why should she blush to reign!
Strephon
.
But, if her haughty heart despise
My humble proffer' d one,
The just compassion she denies
I may obtain from other's eyes;
Her's are not fair alone.
Devouring flames require new food;
My heart's consum'd almost:
New fires must kindle in her blood;
Or mine go out, and that's as good.
Alexis
Would'st live when love is lost?
Be dead before thy passion dies;
For if thou should'st survive,
What anguish would thy heart surprise,
To see her flames begin to rise,
And thine no more alive?
Rather what pleasure should I meet
In my triumphant scorn,
To see my tyrant at my feet;
While, taught by her, unmov'd I sit
A tyrant in my turn.
Ungentle shepherd! cease, for shame,
Which way can you pretend
To merit so divine a flame,
Who to dull life make a mean claim,
When love is at an end?
As trees are by their bark embrac'd,
Love to my soul doth cling:
When torn by the herd's greedy taste,
The injur'd plants feel they're defac'd,
They wither in the spring.
My rifled love would soon retire,
Dissolving into air,
Should I that nymph cease to admire,
Bless'd in whose arms I will expire,
Or at her feet despair.