Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A PASTORAL DIALOGUE BETWEEN ALEXIS AND STREPHON, by JOHN WILMOT


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A PASTORAL DIALOGUE BETWEEN ALEXIS AND STREPHON, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: There sighs not on the plain
Last Line: Or at her feet despair.
Alternate Author Name(s): Rochester, 2d Earl Of


ALEXIS.

There sighs not on the plain
So lost a swain as I;
Scorched up with love, frozen with disdain,
Of killing sweetness I complain.

STREPHON.

If 'tis Corinna, die.

Since first my dazzled eyes were thrown
On that bewitching face,
Like ruined birds robbed of their young,
Lamenting, frighted, and alone,
I fly from place to place.

Framed by some cruel powers above,
So nice she is, and fair,
None from undoing can remove
Since all who are not blind must love --
Who are not vain, despair.

ALEXIS.

The gods no sooner give a grace
But, fond of their own art,
Severely jealous, ever place,
To guard the glories of a face,
A dragon in the heart.

Proud and ill-natured powers they are,
Who, peevish to mankind,
For their own honor's sake, with care
Make a sweet form divinely fair,
And add a cruel mind.

STREPHON.

Since she's insensible of love,
By honor taught to hate,
If we, forced by decrees above,
Must sensible to beauty prove,
How tyrannous is fate!

ALEXIS.

I to the nymph have never named
The cause of all my pain.

STREPHON.

Such bashfulness may well be blamed,
For since to serve we're not ashamed,
Why should she blush to reign?

ALEXIS.

But if her haughty heart despise
My humble proffered one,
The just compassion she denies
I may obtain from others' eyes:
Hers are not fair alone.

Devouring flames require new food:
My heart's consumed almost;
New fires must kindle in her blood,
Or mine go out, and that's as good.

STREPHON.

Wouldst live, when love is lost?

Be dead before thy passion dies,
For if thou shouldst survive,
What anguish would the heart surprise
To see her flames begin to rise,
And thine no more alive!

ALEXIS.

Rather, what pleasure should I meet,
In my triumphant scorn,
To see my tyrant at my feet
Whilst, taught by her, unmoved I sit,
A tyrant in my turn.

STREPHON.

Ungentle shepherd, cease, for shame!
Which way can you pretend
To merit so divine a flame,
Who to dull life make a mean claim
When love is at an end?

As trees are by their bark embraced,
Love to my soul doth cling;
When, torn by the herd's greedy taste,
The injured plants feel they're defaced,
They wither in the spring.

My rifled love would soon retire,
Dissolving into air,
Should I that nymph cease to admire,
Blest in whose arms I will expire,
Or at her feet despair.





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