text,updated_at,metaphor,created_at,context,theme,reviewed_on,dictionary,comments,provenance,id,work_id
"TO AMASIA. COULD YOU BELIEVE MY FLAME, WOULD THAT RELIEVE?
Could you believe my Flame, would that relieve?
You would but scorn the more, as you the more believe.
A real Passion but disdain Creates,
And Pride's a Monster that on Beauty waits.
Custom has taught all Virgins to be coy,
And feeds their Vanity, but starves their Joy.
O'er Sense, o'er Reason, and o'er Love it Rules,
Custom, the Guardian, and the guide of Fools,
Custom, which leads us out, and brings us in;
And yet, 'tis Custom chiefly makes Men Sin.
When we do ill, the weak pretence we show,
The Poor excuse, is, Custom taught us so,
And all the World must with the Fashion go.
If then, that Phantom must all Acts approve,
Know, that 'tis Customary too to Love.
Common to all as Death;--the Rural Swain
Sighs for the Nymph that Charm'd him on the plain
And sits, and Sings like me, like me, in vain.
Forsakes his Flocks, and seeks some cool Retreat,
Shunning the Sun's, and Love's more scorching heat,
Supine he lies--
Gazing on others Herds, and as he Sighs, they bleat.
The Soldier too, proud in his own Commands,
Receives the Signal from his Mistress Hands,
O'er him Triumphant still, where'er she goes,
At every Glance Alarm'd--
More than with Drums, and Trumpets from his foes.
From Noisy Nonsense Calm, entranc'd he lies,
And Swears not now,--but by his Charmer's Eyes.
The pleading Lawyers from the Bar remove,
And slight all suits, but the soft suit of Love.
An other's case, Loquacious, they make known,
Impertinently loud;--
But as their Clients, silent, in their own.
Love, by strange Pow'r, maintains his Conqu'ring Sway,
And we must, in our own despight, obey,
Speaking the least, who have the most to say.
Amasia, thus I prove my claim to you,
All Mankind Love--
But none of all, as I, unhappy, do.
There I transcend the Custom, bold, extravagantly new.
In other things--
Let all your Sex to their old Law refer,
Amasia is belov'd, Love should be Law to her.
Let others boast their Titles, or their Arts,
But only Hearts should have a right to Hearts.
And yet, I own you are not blindly led,
For Reason bids you shun the humble Bed;
Reason?--who ever Lov'd, that did with Reason Wed!",2011-06-16 20:08:36 UTC,"""O'er Sense, o'er Reason, and o'er Love it Rules, / Custom, the Guardian, and the guide of Fools.""",2004-06-14 00:00:00 UTC,I've included the entire poem,"",2011-06-16,"","•Not really the rule of passion, rather the rule of custom or habit (Had Hume known this poem, I think he would have enjoyed it.)",Searching HDIS (Poetry),10283,3955
" Whoe'er he was, he does my fancy move,
Who painted first the little God of Love.
Plainly he saw the senseless Lovers snare,
What solid good they lose, for empty care;
Thence did he Justly windy Wings impart,
And made the God fly with a humane Heart.
By Fortune's waves he knew us wildly tost,
While, by each dash, we may be wreck'd, and lost.
Justly he knew what the old Poets sung,
That from the Seas Love's Beauteous Mother sprung.
E'er since which time, unhappy Lovers see,
Their Passion ne'er can be from Tempests free.
It Ebbs and Flows, unfixt, not long the same,
A rowling Ocean of tumultuous Flame.
He feign'd him blind, with true design, to show
That every Lover, while he Loves, is so.
Justly indeed his Darts were bearded found,
For, what they hurt, can never be made sound;
And 'ere we see him, he is sure to wound.
My Breast his Arrows, and his Image boast,
But sure his Wings, with which he flies, are lost.
My Heart's his Throne, yet Rebel Passions Jar,
Which Fire my Veins, and thro' my Blood make War.
Why Cruel Love, should you the Tyrant Play?
By what pretence can you demand your sway?
But you have Pow'r, and I must still obey.
When I am gone, who shall your praises sing?
And my Light Muse can weighty glories bring.
",2012-02-09 16:22:39 UTC,"""E'er since which time, unhappy Lovers see, / Their Passion ne'er can be from Tempests free / It Ebbs and Flows, unfixt, not long the same, / A rowling Ocean of tumultuous Flame.""",2004-06-14 00:00:00 UTC,I've included the entire poem,"",2012-02-09,"",•I've included twice: Tempest and Ocean.,HDIS (Poetry),10287,3958
"Whoe'er he was, he does my fancy move,
Who painted first the little God of Love.
Plainly he saw the senseless Lovers snare,
What solid good they lose, for empty care;
Thence did he Justly windy Wings impart,
And made the God fly with a humane Heart.
By Fortune's waves he knew us wildly tost,
While, by each dash, we may be wreck'd, and lost.
Justly he knew what the old Poets sung,
That from the Seas Love's Beauteous Mother sprung.
E'er since which time, unhappy Lovers see,
Their Passion ne'er can be from Tempests free.
It Ebbs and Flows, unfixt, not long the same,
A rowling Ocean of tumultuous Flame.
He feign'd him blind, with true design, to show
That every Lover, while he Loves, is so.
Justly indeed his Darts were bearded found,
For, what they hurt, can never be made sound;
And 'ere we see him, he is sure to wound.
My Breast his Arrows, and his Image boast,
But sure his Wings, with which he flies, are lost.
My Heart's his Throne, yet Rebel Passions Jar,
Which Fire my Veins, and thro' my Blood make War.
Why Cruel Love, should you the Tyrant Play?
By what pretence can you demand your sway?
But you have Pow'r, and I must still obey.
When I am gone, who shall your praises sing?
And my Light Muse can weighty glories bring.
",2013-09-09 18:15:47 UTC,"""My Heart's his Throne, yet Rebel Passions Jar, / Which Fire my Veins, and thro' my Blood make War.""",2004-06-14 00:00:00 UTC,"","",,Throne,•I've included Thrice: Throne and Revolution and War.,"Foudn again searching ""passion"" and ""throne"" in HDIS (Poetry)",10289,3958
"Before Thee there the ready Painter stands,
Inspire his Fancy, and inspire his Hands.
Thou Nassaw's Glories to the Artist show,
So shall he paint, that all the Draught may know,
Nassaw, who seems Immortal, shall be so.
Paint him Triumphant ore the peaceful Ball,
And at his Feet let Europe's Scepters fall.
Paint him Instructing heroes in the Field,
Paint him at once War's Thunderbolt and Sheild.
Paint him unmov'd in Dangers and in Blood,
Yet paint him Mild, and mercifully good.
Behind this Mars let fierce Bellona stand,
But paint Astræa smiling in his Hand.
To him be every mortal Vertue given,
Paint him the Conqu'ror of the Earth--
Paint too the pious Hero Conqu'ring Heaven,
Beneath his Throne, let the Iust Pencil draw
That ill fam'd Chief, who kept the World in awe.
Fix on the Ground Macedo's weeping Eyes,
But fix the loftier Nassaw's on the Skies
A future World this Monarch holds in view,
By pious force he shall that World subdue.
Abroad, he leading, we our Foes or'ecome,
And o'er our Selves grow Conquerors at home.
Whilst our own Will our Passions shall restrain,
He gives us each an Empire where to Reign.
What Pen, what Pencil strikes the vast Extent?
The Godhead can't be shaddow'd out by Poetry or Paint.
",2014-08-18 14:53:02 UTC,"""Whilst our own Will our Passions shall restrain, / He [Nassaw] gives us each an Empire where to Reign.""",2004-08-22 00:00:00 UTC,I've included the entire poem,"",,Empire,•Previous line describes self-conquering.,"Searching ""empire"" and ""passion"" in HDIS (Poetry)",10294,3961
"How far will Love his Conqu'ring Wings extend!
O must my Mortal suff'rings never end?
They cannot, no; each sigh Love's flight sustains,
O'er my own Heart in my own Breast he Reigns,
And holds too strong, my strugling Soul in Chains.
Thy growing Beauties yield him fresh supplies,
His Darts are pointed by Amasia's Eyes.
Thy soft Commands are by this Cheif obey'd,
'Tis you, who teach Love warfare, Charming Maid!
And on his Standards is thy form display'd.
I yield, I yeild, thus Prostrate low, I fall,
Love's Goddess thou! thou Conquerour of my all!
You all my Thoughts, you all my Speech employ,
Thou giv'st me pain, and thou can'st give me Joy.
Whate'er you please to do, I pleas'd, approve,
Hate, where you hate, and where you fancy, Love.
Sun of my Days! and Phantom of my Nights!
Source of my Woes! and Spring of my Delights!
Fond of my Life, should you make kind returns,
Yet now I slight it, since Amasia scorns.
Just as you make me, either Curst or blest,
Form'd to your will, my Soul is rais'd, or prest,
And swells and falls, like thy own Charming Breast.
Ill with thy Breast do I my Soul compare,
Thy Breast--the Seat of all that's Sweet and fair,
Thy Breast--O Scene of Pleasures! ever blooming there.
Whilst in my Soul Despair her Court maintains,
And with deep Pomp in solid Darkness Reigns.
Thy Breast!--O never let me lose the Theam,
There, as entranc'd, let my lull'd fancy Dream.
O could I gently melt the Lovely Snow,
Thence, thence the Poet's Helicon would flow,
And I should need no other Muse than you.
If now with Frozen coldness you inspire,
O could you burn, how fierce would mount the Fire,
Flaming with Joy, and sparkling with desire.
To heights sublime would soaring fancy drive,
Amasia's Name should at the Stars arrive,
Amasia long, long Ages should her self survive.
No sad decay should to thy Beauties come,
As in thy Face, when mould'ring in the Tomb,
They should for ever in my Numbers bloom.
More lasting far than polish'd Marble made,
While Men could read, thy glories should not fade.
Thy Lovely Image thro' the World should go,
The World should thee it's greatest Charmer know,
Thy Charms, which seem Immortal, should be so.
Round thro' the Universe thy Fame should flee,
My Verse ador'd should live, by giving Life to thee.
Sound, Fame, thy Trumpet, to the Skies Proclaim,
Amasia lives, for ever lives in Fame.
Sound too her Sylvius lives; Love Life insures,
Known, while the Sun, the God of Verse endures,
Known for my Constant Love, Amasia, ever Yours.
",2012-01-11 21:46:11 UTC,"""Whilst in my Soul Despair her Court maintains, / And with deep Pomp in solid Darkness Reigns.""",2004-08-25 00:00:00 UTC,I've included the entire poem,"",2012-01-11,Court,Not a juridical but the royal court...,"Searching ""court"" and ""soul"" in HDIS (Poetry)",10295,3962
"Tho' Sense prevailing Checks a kind return,
Tho' Sense, cold sense, permits you not to burn,
Yet Sense can never bid Amasia scorn.
By Fate's decree, Love rages in the Blood;
A Passion cannot be by force withstood,
For I would hate Amasia, if I cou'd.
Can I at once mention thy Name, and hate?
Love Choaks that Word, for Love to me is fate.
Resentment now does with soft Fondness Jar,
Reason and Love wage an Eternal War;
Love Fights--Love Conquers still--
And my own Heart is his Triumphant Car.
In vain I call my Senses to my aid,
In vain Rebel, he will be still obey'd,
For I am soon by ev'ry Sense betray'd.
Now, I resolve thy Beauties to despise,
And look--but look alas! with longing Eyes.
Each pointed Glance, with haughty Courage Arm'd,
Looses its Edge, and at thy sight grows Charm'd.
In all I yield, and strait, ye Pow'rs Divine!
My Heart, and Soul, as well as Eyes, are thine.
Whene'er I touch thee, I transported grow,
Whene'r I touch, which but in Thought I do,
More soft thou seem'st--
Than downy Swans, or than the Fleecy Snow.
Thy Fragrant Breath--
More smelling Sweet than richest Perfumes blows,
Than Scents of Violets, or the blooming Rose.
To catch new Sweets, oft flying Zephirs stay,
Around thy Lips, and with thy Tresses play,
Then pleas'd, with Whistlings fly--
And on their Wings bear the dear spoils away.
In thee all Odours keep their Lov'd aboad,
One sigh of yours would Charm, or make, a God.
From place to place, tastless of Food, I rove,
Loathing all else--my only food is Love.
Musick, be dumb--what Musick can I hear?
Amasia's Voice can only Charm my Ear,
All's discord else--there's only Musick there.
Thy Ayres, at once, Fann, while they raise the Fire,
Thy Words beyond all others Songs inspire,
Charming the Poet more than his Apollo's lyre.
Seraphick strains from every Accent spring,
Sing not Amasia--no--
For I should grow Immortal, should you sing.
Whene'er you speak, fond of the Charming sound,
With the Lov'd Voice the Hills, and Vales rebound,
Scarce, scarce at last by repetition drown'd.
O had the Vocal Nymph such strains restor'd,
Had Eccho's Voice been such, Narcissus had ador'd.
Ravish'd like me, he had Condemn'd his choice,
And had not Burn'd--
For the Reflection of a Face, but Voice.
",2009-09-14 19:34:52 UTC,"""Reason and Love wage an Eternal War""",2005-02-09 00:00:00 UTC,"Vol. 2, Book 3, ""Letters of Love""
I've included the entire poem","",,"","",Searching in HDIS (Poetry),10302,3968
"Tho' Sense prevailing Checks a kind return,
Tho' Sense, cold sense, permits you not to burn,
Yet Sense can never bid Amasia scorn.
By Fate's decree, Love rages in the Blood;
A Passion cannot be by force withstood,
For I would hate Amasia, if I cou'd.
Can I at once mention thy Name, and hate?
Love Choaks that Word, for Love to me is fate.
Resentment now does with soft Fondness Jar,
Reason and Love wage an Eternal War;
Love Fights--Love Conquers still--
And my own Heart is his Triumphant Car.
In vain I call my Senses to my aid,
In vain Rebel, he will be still obey'd,
For I am soon by ev'ry Sense betray'd.
Now, I resolve thy Beauties to despise,
And look--but look alas! with longing Eyes.
Each pointed Glance, with haughty Courage Arm'd,
Looses its Edge, and at thy sight grows Charm'd.
In all I yield, and strait, ye Pow'rs Divine!
My Heart, and Soul, as well as Eyes, are thine.
Whene'er I touch thee, I transported grow,
Whene'r I touch, which but in Thought I do,
More soft thou seem'st--
Than downy Swans, or than the Fleecy Snow.
Thy Fragrant Breath--
More smelling Sweet than richest Perfumes blows,
Than Scents of Violets, or the blooming Rose.
To catch new Sweets, oft flying Zephirs stay,
Around thy Lips, and with thy Tresses play,
Then pleas'd, with Whistlings fly--
And on their Wings bear the dear spoils away.
In thee all Odours keep their Lov'd aboad,
One sigh of yours would Charm, or make, a God.
From place to place, tastless of Food, I rove,
Loathing all else--my only food is Love.
Musick, be dumb--what Musick can I hear?
Amasia's Voice can only Charm my Ear,
All's discord else--there's only Musick there.
Thy Ayres, at once, Fann, while they raise the Fire,
Thy Words beyond all others Songs inspire,
Charming the Poet more than his Apollo's lyre.
Seraphick strains from every Accent spring,
Sing not Amasia--no--
For I should grow Immortal, should you sing.
Whene'er you speak, fond of the Charming sound,
With the Lov'd Voice the Hills, and Vales rebound,
Scarce, scarce at last by repetition drown'd.
O had the Vocal Nymph such strains restor'd,
Had Eccho's Voice been such, Narcissus had ador'd.
Ravish'd like me, he had Condemn'd his choice,
And had not Burn'd--
For the Reflection of a Face, but Voice.
",2013-08-07 18:39:19 UTC,"""Love Fights--Love Conquers still-- / And my own Heart is his Triumphant Car.""",2005-02-09 00:00:00 UTC,"Vol. 2, Book 3, ""Letters of Love""
I've included the entire poem","",,"","",Searching in HDIS (Poetry),10303,3968
"Tho' Sense prevailing Checks a kind return,
Tho' Sense, cold sense, permits you not to burn,
Yet Sense can never bid Amasia scorn.
By Fate's decree, Love rages in the Blood;
A Passion cannot be by force withstood,
For I would hate Amasia, if I cou'd.
Can I at once mention thy Name, and hate?
Love Choaks that Word, for Love to me is fate.
Resentment now does with soft Fondness Jar,
Reason and Love wage an Eternal War;
Love Fights--Love Conquers still--
And my own Heart is his Triumphant Car.
In vain I call my Senses to my aid,
In vain Rebel, he will be still obey'd,
For I am soon by ev'ry Sense betray'd.
Now, I resolve thy Beauties to despise,
And look--but look alas! with longing Eyes.
Each pointed Glance, with haughty Courage Arm'd,
Looses its Edge, and at thy sight grows Charm'd.
In all I yield, and strait, ye Pow'rs Divine!
My Heart, and Soul, as well as Eyes, are thine.
Whene'er I touch thee, I transported grow,
Whene'r I touch, which but in Thought I do,
More soft thou seem'st--
Than downy Swans, or than the Fleecy Snow.
Thy Fragrant Breath--
More smelling Sweet than richest Perfumes blows,
Than Scents of Violets, or the blooming Rose.
To catch new Sweets, oft flying Zephirs stay,
Around thy Lips, and with thy Tresses play,
Then pleas'd, with Whistlings fly--
And on their Wings bear the dear spoils away.
In thee all Odours keep their Lov'd aboad,
One sigh of yours would Charm, or make, a God.
From place to place, tastless of Food, I rove,
Loathing all else--my only food is Love.
Musick, be dumb--what Musick can I hear?
Amasia's Voice can only Charm my Ear,
All's discord else--there's only Musick there.
Thy Ayres, at once, Fann, while they raise the Fire,
Thy Words beyond all others Songs inspire,
Charming the Poet more than his Apollo's lyre.
Seraphick strains from every Accent spring,
Sing not Amasia--no--
For I should grow Immortal, should you sing.
Whene'er you speak, fond of the Charming sound,
With the Lov'd Voice the Hills, and Vales rebound,
Scarce, scarce at last by repetition drown'd.
O had the Vocal Nymph such strains restor'd,
Had Eccho's Voice been such, Narcissus had ador'd.
Ravish'd like me, he had Condemn'd his choice,
And had not Burn'd--
For the Reflection of a Face, but Voice.",2009-09-14 19:34:52 UTC,"One may call his Senses to his aid, and ""In vain Rebel,"" but soon he is ""by ev'ry Sense betray'd""",2005-02-09 00:00:00 UTC,"Vol. 2, Book 3, ""Letters of Love""
I've included the entire poem","",,"","",Searching in HDIS (Poetry),10304,3968
"The Beauteous Salmacis, who Lov'd her ease,
By her own Fountain Passes happy Days.
There she delights, there do her wishes please.
This Nymph was still unpractis'd in the chace,
She ne'er contended in a painful race.
Lov'd not to mingle with Diana's Train,
Nor draw the Bow, nor Hunt upon the Plain.
Oft her laborious Sisters bid her rise,
To Join with them, and get some stately Prize.
They urg'd her oft with Words repeated o'er,
To follows Staggs, or to pursue the Boar.
All would not do, she would no Quiver seize,
Nor for their toil forgo her pleasant ease.
But in her Fountain she delights to play,
By Night rests there, and there she Bathes by Day.
Still in that liquid Glass she drest her Charms,
And her fair Eyes with Loving glances Arms.
There still she learnt what Gesture best became,
There practic'd Charms, such as could raise a Flame.
Oft from one side she to the other Swims,
Then in fine Lawn arrays her Beauteous Limbs.
Oft, on soft Moss, stretcht at their length they lay,
And thro' the White, transparent Robes their Lovely shape display.
To the full view she leaves her Bosom bare,
Spreads o'er her Shoulders her loose, flowing Hair,
And shews her Face, her Neck, and Breasts exceeding fair.
Languishing now, on blooming Banks she lies,
And plucks such Flow'rs as please her Curious Eyes.
When she perciev'd, as she was busy'd there,
The Charming Son of Hermes coming near,
Who, soon as seen, the Virgin's wishes mov'd,
For he deserv'd to be by all belov'd.
His blooming Beauties she admir'd much more,
Than the fair Flow'rs for which she long'd before.
At the first sight, her wishes fill'd her Soul,
While soft Emotions in her Bosom rowl.
Her Fires grew fiercer, as he nearer came,
And now she fondly burns with glowing Flame.
Much she desir'd, yet still conceal'd she lies,
Till with soft looks she deckt her sparkling Eyes.
'Till she appear'd with all her utmost Art;
'Till all her Beauties bloom'd in every part,
That she might win the Charmer, and surprize a Heart.
With all her skill she does each Feature Arm,
And sets her Dress, who of her self might Charm.
She now at last in all her Robes applies,
To the dear Youth in looks, and moving sighs,
And by her melting Words she shews him how she dies.
With gaining ways, and soft, bewitching snares,
Her Passion thus she to the Swain declares.
Such are your Charms, dear Boy, your Beauties such,
All Nymphs must Love you, none can Love too much.
Pleasing your form, sure you are all Divine,
All Hearts you Conquer, as you Conquer mine.
Such are the wond'rous glories of your Face,
You were not born sure of a Mortal race.
Such, such the sparkling brightness of your Eyes,
Such the strange force which in their glances lies,
You are some God descended from the Skies.
Ah! you so much can on a suddain move,
I know, I know that you were born above,
You are the Son to the fair Queen of Love.
If I mistake, if then you are not so,
But the sweet Off-spring of some Prince below.
Happy, ah! thrice, thrice happy must they be,
Who are related, and ally'd to thee.
Blest are thy Parents: and that Woman's Breast,
Which gave thee Food, is infinitely blest,
But the fair Partn'r of thy Bed much more than all the rest.
If such there be, ah! do but grant me this,
Let me Embrace thee, let me fondly Kiss,
And by close stealth deprive her of her Bliss.
But if you yet from Nuptial vows are free,
Make me your Joyful Bride, ah! seal them now with me
The Love-sick Nymph thus far her Passion mov'd,
Thus told the Charming Youth how well she Lov'd
When fierce desires her farther Speech debarr'd,
And the Youth Blush'd for the fond things he heard
Still in his Blushes did he Lovelier seem,
Still more she wish'd to be belov'd by him.
So Apples blush upon the Sunny side,
Or polish'd Iv'ry with Vermillion dy'd.
So in Eclipses does the Moon appear,
When stains of Red her strugling Face does wear.
Closer she comes, and now in Am'rous pain,
She thinks to seize upon the Lovely Swain.
With bashful Anger her Embrace he shuns,
And from the Maid disdaining proudly, runs.
With nice reserve he flies the tempting snare,
Forbear, he cries, loose idle Nymph, forbear,
Or I'll forsake the place, and leave you there.
She, at this Menace from the Youth, reply'd.
'Tis yours, fair Swain, and so she stept aside.
Yet in a thicket of close, shrubby Trees,
She hides secure, and all his Actions sees.
He now believing there was none to view,
To the fair Banks of the Nymph's Fountain drew.
And sporting now, trips nimbly back again,
With bolder steps o'er all the Flow'ry plain.
Now, growing warm, he crosses o'er the Meads,
Comes to the Stream, and to the Knees he wades.
Then, to the Greens he takes the nearer ways,
His Silken Garments on the ground he lays.
And to the longing Maid, all, all the Man displays.
His Naked Beauties her fond sight amaz'd,
Who with impatient, eager wishes gaz'd.
Her sparkling Eyes, while she the Youth desires,
Glow with bright Beams, and shoot out shining Fires.
Their rays the Sun's on Silver streams surpass,
Or when reflected by a Chrystal Glass.
Mad to possess, and to enjoy the Swain,
She almost thinks to tell her Loves again,
So very much she burns with the transporting pain.
Now, from the Flow'ry Bank, to which he came,
The Lovely Boy leapt down into the Stream.
Then, with his Snowy Arms he loosely plays,
And sports, and wantons thro his liquid ways.
Still as he swims, his glitt'ring Limbs appear,
Thro' the smooth Streams, so undisturb'd, and clear.
Like Iv'ry Statues, which the Life surpass,
Or like a Lilly in a Chrystal Glass.
The ravish'd Virgin Cries, he's now my own,
And, strait disrob'd of all, impatient grown,
Pursues her eager Joys, and plunges to him down.
About his Neck, and o'er his strugling Wast,
Her circling Arms with longing folds she cast.
On ev'ry side she clasps him, as he swims,
And locks him closely with her twining Limbs.
So, when an Eagle with a Serpent flies,
Fast in his Talons, and then Mounts the Skies.
Around his Head, and Feet the Serpent clings,
And wreaths her tail about his spacious Wings.
Still, tho' detain'd, and forc'd, the strugling Boy
With all his Pow'rs resists the Virgin's Joy.
In vain, ingrateful, foolish Youth, she cries,
In vain, your scornful Pride my coming bliss denies.
Grant, grant ye Pow'rs! that no unhappy day,
May snatch this youth from my embrace away.
Propitious Pow'rs to the Nymph's Pray'rs incline,
For strait in one their diff'rent Figures twine.
And as their Souls Join'd when their transports flew,
Their Bodies mingled with each other too.
",2009-09-14 19:34:52 UTC,"""All Hearts you Conquer, as you Conquer mine""",2005-02-09 00:00:00 UTC,"Vol. 3, Book 1, ""The Metamorphosis of Love""
I've included the entire poem","",,"","","Searching ""conque"" and ""heart"" in HDIS (Poetry)",10305,3969
"Distracted now thro' every den I rove,
Search each recess, and visit every Grove,
Swift thro' confusion to find out my Love.
Thro' Woods, and Wilds, in Caves I Search in vain,
To Heav'n I look, and thro' the Fields complain,
But all unkindly answer not again.
Next, to some Brook; or shady Vale I fly,
Thinking my fair may in some grotto lye.
In vain! alass! my weary Limbs I bear,
I only find thou art a stranger there.
Then, stung with Passion, and o'ercome with Pain.
To Heav'n I loudly of my wrongs complain.
The panting Beasts which thro' the Forests rove,
Have now no longer any Power to move,
But stand amaz'd to hear my tale of Love.
Then, all confusion, all despair, I rise,
And throw my Arms to the regardless Skies.
Thence to the Ocean's Sandy banks I run,
View both the rising, and declining Sun.
Like that, my Thought a constant motion bears,
And when I rest, I set in Seas of Tears.
Rais'd with my griefs, and overcome with woes,
I sadly sigh to every Wind that blows.
Wild with despair, I view the Billows round,
Thinking some wave may with my love be crown'd,
While my complaints o'er all the shores resound.
Tell me, I cry, ye Surges, tell me true,
Is not Amasia hid in some of you?
No thought alas! can my Mind's Storms appease,
No second Venus will arise from Seas.
Then, fierce as Whirlwinds on the strands I Walk,
And loud as Thunder to my self I talk;
When from my Eyes I shed a gentle show'r,
And lay those Tempests I had rais'd before.
Rack'd with my griefs, my Anxious Soul survives,
Dash'd like a ship which with the Billows drives.
Thence, to the plains my fainting Limbs I bear,
Lost still in Love, and lost in Errour there.
In a deep Vale, where a thick Covert grows,
I fondly strive to be at soft repose.
But there I find, nor Sea, nor Cave, nor Wood,
Nor Stars, nor Heav'n it self can do me good.
Wild Thoughts distract me in those grateful bow'rs'
I take each gentle Breeze's Voice for yours.
Whilst by Succession day and night return,
I, greatly curs'd, must never cease to mourn.
Yet Groves like these did once the Joys improve,
Of blest Adonis, and the Queen of Love.
So might I rifle my Amasia's Charms,
And clasp my Goddess in my burning Arms.
How strangely blest might she her Sylvius see,
And make her self more happy, blessing me.
Securely close, and from all Cities far,
Remote from tumults, and the noise of War.
In secret shades she might my Passion crown;
There my Amasia might be all my own.
As boist'rous Storms endear the distant shore:
And hardship always shews our Joys the more.
So should she make me Court her even there,
And e'er she blest me, let me tast despair.
Whilst peaceful silence Reigns thro' all the bow'rs,
And ev'n no Whispers can be heard, but ours.
There we shall ne'er fear any watchful Spies.
None but the Moon sees where Amasia lies.
Such Thought as these my waking wishes fly,
Tho' none, Amasia loves so fixt as I.
Ev'n tho' you hate me most, I Love you still,
Nor would be cur'd of my Tormenting ill.
My very pain yields me some pleasure now,
I joy to smart, since 'tis impos'd by you.
A greater bless Lives in my deep despair,
Than in the Smiles of any other Fair.",2009-09-14 19:34:53 UTC,"""Rack'd with my griefs, my Anxious Soul survives, / Dash'd like a ship which with the Billows drives.""",2005-05-31 00:00:00 UTC,I've included the entire poem,"",,"","",Searching in HDIS (Poetry),10314,3973