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THE ENJOYMENT, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Far from the court's ambitious noise
Last Line: Contesting each to be subdu'd.
Alternate Author Name(s): Saint-amand, Sieur De; Girard, Antoine; Saint Amant, Marc Antoine Girard


FAR from the court's ambitious noise
Retir'd, to those more harmless joys
Which the sweet country, pleasant fields,
And my own court, a cottage, yields;
I liv'd from all disturbance free,
Though prisoner (Sylvia) unto thee;
Secur'd from fears, which others prove,
Of the inconstancy of Love;
A life, in my esteem, more blest,
Than e'er yet stoop'd to Death's arrest.

My senses and desires agreed,
With joint delight each other feed:
A bliss, I reach'd, as far above
Words, as her beauty, or my love;
Such as compar'd with which, the joys
Of the most happy seem but toys:
Affection I receive and pay,
My pleasures knew not Grief's allay:
The more I tasted I desir'd,
The more I quench'd my thirst was fir'd.

Now, in some place where Nature shows
Her naked beauty, we repose;
Where she allures the wand'ring eye
With colours, which faint art outvie;
Pearls scatter'd by the weeping morn,
Each where the glitt'ring flowers adorn;
The mistress of the youthful year
(To whom kind Zephyrus doth bear
His amorous vows and frequent prayer)
Decks with these gems her neck and hair.

Hither, to quicken Time with sport,
The little sprightly Loves resort,
And dancing o'er the enamel'd mead,
Their mistresses the Graces lead;
Then to refresh themselves, repair
To the soft bosom of my fair;
Where from the kisses they bestow
Upon each other, such sweets flow
As carry in their mixed breath
A mutual power of life and death.

Next in an elm's dilated shade
We see a rugged Satyr laid,
Teaching his reed, in a soft strain,
Of his sweet anguish to complain;
Then to a lonely grove retreat,
Where day can no admittance get,
To visit peaceful solitude;
Whom seeing by repose pursu'd,
All busy cares, for fear to spoil
Their calmer courtship, we exile.

There underneath a myrtle, thought
By Fairies sacred, where was wrought
By Venus' hand Love's mysteries,
And all the trophies of her eyes,
Our solemn prayers to Heaven we send,
That our firm love might know no end;
Nor time its vigour e'er impair:
Then to the winged God we sware,
And grav'd the oath in its smooth rind,
Which in our hearts we deeper find.

Then to my dear (as if afraid
To try her doubted faith) I said,
'Would in thy soul my form as clear,
As in thy eyes I see it, were.'
She kindly angry saith, 'Thou art
Drawn more at large within my heart;
These figures in my eye appear
But small, because they are not near,
Thou through these glasses seest thy face,
As pictures through their crystal case.'

Now with delight transported, I
My wreathed arms about her tie;
The flattering Ivy never holds
Her husband Elm in stricter folds:
To cool my fervent thirst, I sip
Delicious nectar from her lip.
She pledges, and so often past
This amorous health, till Love at last
Our souls did with these pleasures sate,
And equally inebriate.

Awhile, our senses stol'n away,
Lost in this ecstasy we lay,
Till both together rais'd to life,
We re-engage in this kind strife.
Cythaera with her Syrian boy
Could never reach our meanest joy.
The childish God of Love ne'er tried
So much of love with his cold bride,
As we in one embrace include,
Contesting each to be subdu'd.





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