Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO MRS W. ON HER EXCELLENT VERSES WRITTEN IN A FIT OF SICKNESS, by APHRA BEHN


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO MRS W. ON HER EXCELLENT VERSES WRITTEN IN A FIT OF SICKNESS, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Enough kind heaven! To purpose I have liv'd
Last Line: With humble adoration, humble praise.
Alternate Author Name(s): Astraea; Behn, Afara; Behn, Apharra; Amis, Ayfara
Subject(s): Poetry & Poets; Wharton, Anne (1659-1685); Wilmot, John (1647-1680); Rochester, 2nd Earl Of


Enough kind Heaven! to purpose I have liv'd,
And all my Sighs & Languishments surviv'd.
My Stars in vain their sullen influence have shed,
Round my till now Unlucky Head:
I pardon all the Silent Hours I've griev'd,
My Weary Nights, and Melancholy Days;
When no Kind Power my Pain Reliev'd,
I lose you all, you sad Remembrancers,
I lose you all in New-born Joys,
Joys that will dissipate my Falling Tears.
The Mighty Soul of Rochester's reviv'd,
Enough Kind Heaven to purpose I have liv'd.
I saw the Lovely Phantom, no Disguise,
Veil'd the blest Vision from my Eyes,
Twas all o're Rochester that pleas'd and did surprize.
Sad as the Grave I sat by Glimmering Light,
Such as attends Departing Souls by Night.
Pensive as absent Lovers left alone,
Or my poor Dove, when his Fond Mate was gone.
Silent as Groves when only Whispering Gales,
Sigh through the Rushing Leaves,
As softly as a Bashful Shepherd Breaths,
To his Lov'd Nymph his Amorous Tales.
So dull I was, scarce Thought a Subject found,
Dull as the Light that gloom'd around;
When lo the Mighty Spirit appear'd,
All Gay, all Charming to my sight;
My Drooping Soul it Rais'd and Cheer'd,
And cast about a Dazling Light.
In every part there did appear,
The Great, the God-like Rochester,
His Softness all, his Sweetness everywhere.
It did advance, and with a Generous Look,
To me Addrest, to worthless me it spoke:
With the same wonted Grace my Muse it prais'd,
With the same Goodness did my Faults Correct:
And Careful of the Fame himself first rais'd,
Obligingly it School'd my loose Neglect.
The soft, the moving Accents soon I knew
The gentle Voice made up of Harmony;
Through the Known Paths of my glad Soul it flew;
I knew it straight, it could no others be,
'Twas not Alied but very very he.
So the All-Ravisht Swain that hears
The wondrous Musick of the Sphears,
For ever does the grateful Sound retain,
Whilst all his Oaten Pipes and Reeds.
The Rural Musick of the Groves and Meads,
Strive to divert him from the Heavenly Song in vain.
He hates their harsh and Untun'd Lays,
Which now no more his Soul and Fancy raise.
But if one Note of the remembred Air
He chance again to hear,
He starts, and in a transport cries, -- Tis there!
He knows it all by that one little taste,
And by that grateful Hint remembers all the rest.
Great, Good, and Excellent, by what new way
Shall I my humble Tribute pay,
For this vast Glory you my Muse have done,
For this great Condescention shown!
So Gods of old sometimes laid by
Their Awful Trains of Majesty,
And chang'd ev'n Heav'n a while for Groves and Plains,
And to their Fellow-Gods preferr'd the lowly Swains.
And Beds of Flow'rs would oft compare
To those of Downey Clouds, or yielding Air;
At Purling Streams would drink in homely Shells,
Put off the God, to Revel it in Woods and Shepherds Cells;
Would listen to their Rustick Songs, and show
Such Divine Goodness in Commending too,
Whilst the transported Swain the Honour pays
With humble Adoration, humble Praise.





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