"Now, when a mutual Flame you have reveal'd, / And the dear Union of our Souls is seal'd,"

— Congreve, William (1670-1729)

"Now, when a mutual Flame you have reveal'd, / And the dear Union of our Souls is seal'd,"
Metaphor in Context
Why are those Hours, which Heav'n in pity lent
To longing Love, in fruitless Sorrow spent?
Why sighs my Fair? Why does that Bosom move
With any Passion stirr'd, but rising Love?
Can Discontent find Place within that Breast,
On whose soft Pillows ev'n Despair might rest?
Divide thy Woes, and give me my sad part,
I am no Stranger to an aking Heart;
Too well I know the Force of inward Grief,
And well can bear it, to give you Relief:
All Love's severest Pangs I can endure;
I can bear Pain, tho' hopeless of a Cure.
I know what 'tis to Weep, and Sigh, and Pray,
To wake all Night, yet dread the breaking Day;
I know what 'tis to Wish, and Hope, and all in vain,
And meet, for humble Love, unkind Disdain;
Anger, and Hate, I have been forc'd to bear,
Nay Jealousie--and I have felt Despair.
These Pains, for you, I have been forc'd to prove,
For cruel you, when I began to Love.
'Till warm Compassion took at length my part,
And melted to my Wish your yielding Heart.
O the dear Hour, in which you did resign!
When round my Neck your willing Arms did twine,
And, in a Kiss, you said your Heart was mine.
Thro' each returning Year, may that Hour be
Distinguish'd in the Rounds of all Eternity;
Gay be the Sun, that Hour, in all his Light,
Let him collect the Day, to be more bright,
Shine all, that Hour, and let the rest be Night.
And shall I all this Heav'n of Bliss receive
From you, yet not lament to see you grieve!
Shall I, who nourish'd in my Breast Desire,
When your cold Scorn, and Frowns forbid the Fire;
Now, when a mutual Flame you have reveal'd,
And the dear Union of our Souls is seal'd,

When all my Joys compleat in you I find,
Shall I not share the Sorrows of your Mind?
O tell me, tell me All--whence does arise
This Flood of Tears? whence are these frequent Sighs?
Why does that lovely Head, like a fair Flow'r
Oppress'd with Drops of a hard-falling Show'r,
Bend with its weight of Grief, and seem to grow
Downward to Earth, and kiss the Root of Woe?
Lean on my Breast, and let me fold thee fast,
Lock'd in these Arms, think all thy Sorrows past;
Or, what remain, think lighter made by me;
So I should think, were I so held by thee.
Murmur thy Plaints, and gently wound my Ears;
Sigh on my Lip, and let me drink thy Tears;
Join to my Cheek, thy Cold and Dewy Face,
And let pale Grief to glowing Love give place.
O speak--for Woe in Silence most appears;
Speak, e'er my Fancy magnifie my Fears.
Is there a Cause, which Words cannot express!
Can I nor bear a part, nor make it less?
I know not what to think--Am I in Fault?
I have not, to my Knowledge, err'd in Thought,
Nor wander'd from my Love, nor wou'd I be
Lord of the World, to live depriv'd of thee.
You weep a-fresh, and at that Word you start!
Am I to be depriv'd then?--must we part!
Curse on that Word so ready to be spoke,
For through my Lips, unmeant by me, it broke.
Oh no, we must not, will not, cannot part,
And my Tongue talks, unprompted by my Heart.
Yet speak, for my Distraction grows apace,
And racking Fears, and restless Doubts increase;
And Fears and Doubts to Jealousie will turn,
The hottest Hell, in which a Heart can burn
Searching "soul" and "seal" in HDIS (Poetry)
Date of Entry

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