Персональная страница
Романа Дубровкина

WHAT! no more favours? Not a ribbon more,
Not fan nor muff to hold as heretofore
Must all the little blisses then be left,
And what was once love’s gift, become our theft?
May we not look ourselves into a trance,
Teach our souls parley at our eyes, not glance,
Not touch the hand, not by soft wringing there
Whisper a love that only yes can hear?
Not free a sigh, a sigh that’s there for you
Dear, must I love you, and not love you too?
Be wise, nice, fair; for sooner shall they trace
The feather’d choristers from place to place,
By prints they make in th’air, and sooner say
By what right line the last star made his way,
That fled from heaven to earth, than guess to know
How our loves first did spring, or how they grow.
Love is all spirit fairies sooner may
Be taken tardy, when they night-tricks play,
Than we, we are too dull and lumpish rather,
Would they could find us both in bed together!

Oh, for some honest lover's ghost,
Some kind unbodied post
Sent from the shades below!
I strangely long to know
Whether the noble chaplets wear
Those that their mistress' scorn did bear
Or those that were used kindly.

For whatsoe'er they tell us here
To make those sufferings dear,
'Twill there, I fear, be found
That to the being crowned
T' have loved alone will not suffice,
Unless we also have been wise
And have our loves enjoyed.

What posture can we think him in
That, here unloved, again
Departs, and 's thither gone
Where each sits by his own?
Or how can that Elysium be
Where I my mistress still must see
Circled in other's arms?

For there the judges all are just,
And Sophonisba must
Be his whom she held dear,
Not his who loved her here.
The sweet Philoclea, since she died,
Lies by her Pirocles his side,
Not by Amphialus.

Some bays, perchance, or myrtle bough
For difference crowns the brow
Of those kind souls that were
The noble martyrs here;
And if that be the only odds,
(As who can tell?) ye kinder gods,
Give me the woman here!

Well-shadowed landskip, fare-ye-well:
How I have loved you, none can tell,
At least so well
As he that now hates more
Then e'er he loved before.

But my dear nothings, take your leave;
No longer must you me deceive,
Since I perceive
All the deceit, and know
Whence the mistake did grow.

As he whose quicker eye doth trace
A false star shot to a marked place
Does run apace,
And thinking it to catch
A jelly up does snatch,

So our dull souls, tasting delight
Far off, by sense, and appetite,
Think that is right
And real good, when yet
'Tis but the counterfeit.

Oh, how I glory now that I
Have made this new discovery!
Each wanton eye
Enflamed before; no more
Will I increase that score.

If I gaze now, 'tis but to see
What manner of death's-head 'twill be,
When it is free
From that fresh upper skin,
The gazer's joy, and sin.

The gum and glistening which with art
And studied method in each part
Hangs down the hair–'t
Looks just as if that day
Snails there had crawled the hay.

The locks that curled o'er each ear be
Hang like two master-worms to me,
That (as we see)
Have tasted to the rest
Two holes, where they like 't best.

A quick corse methinks I spy
In every woman; and mine eye,
At passing by,
Checks, and is troubled, just
As if it rose from dust.

They mortify not heighten me;
These of my sins the glasses be:
And here I see
How I have loved before.
And so I love no more.