"Whilst in my Soul Despair her Court maintains, / And with deep Pomp in solid Darkness Reigns."

— Hopkins, John (b. 1675)

Place of Publication
Printed by Tho. Warren
"Whilst in my Soul Despair her Court maintains, / And with deep Pomp in solid Darkness Reigns."
Metaphor in Context
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.
Searching "court" and "soul" in HDIS (Poetry)
Only 1 entry in ESTC (1700).

Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses. A Collection of Poems. In Three Volumes. By Mr. John Hopkins. (London: Printed by Tho. Warren, 1700). <Link to ESTC><Link to EEBO>
Date of Entry
Date of Review

The Mind is a Metaphor is authored by Brad Pasanek, Assistant Professor of English, University of Virginia.