One may call his Senses to his aid, and "In vain Rebel," but soon he is "by ev'ry Sense betray'd"

— Hopkins, John (b. 1675)

Place of Publication
Printed by Tho. Warren [etc.]
One may call his Senses to his aid, and "In vain Rebel," but soon he is "by ev'ry Sense betray'd"
Metaphor in Context
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.
Searching 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

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