Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A FORSAKEN LADY TO HER FALSE SERVANT THAT IS DISDAINED BY NEW MISTRESS, by RICHARD LOVELACE



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A FORSAKEN LADY TO HER FALSE SERVANT THAT IS DISDAINED BY NEW MISTRESS, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Were it that you so shun me 'cause you wish
Last Line: Oh, make me choose rather to freeze than burn.
Subject(s): Love - Complaints


WERE it that you so shun me 'cause you wish,
Cruel'st, a fellow in your wretchedness,
Or that you take some small ease in your own
Torments, to hear another sadly groan,
I were most happy in my pains, to be
So truly blest to be so curs'd by thee;
But oh! my cries to that do rather add,
Of which too much already thou hast had,
And thou art gladly sad to hear my moan,
Yet sadly hear'st me with derision.

Thou most unjust, that really dost know,
And feel'st thyself the flames I burn in, oh!
How can you beg to be set loose from that
Consuming stake you bind another at?

Uncharitablest both ways, to deny
That pity me, for which yourself must die,
To love not her loves you, yet know the pain
What 'tis to love and not be lov'd again.

Fly on, fly on, swift racer, until she
Whom thou of all ador'st shall learn of thee
The pace t' outfly thee, and shall teach thee groan
What terror 'tis t' outgo and be outgone.

Not yet look back, nor yet; must we
Run then like spokes in wheels eternally,
And never overtake? be dragg'd on still
By the weak cordage of your untwin'd will,
Round without hope of rest? No, I will turn,
And with my goodness boldly meet your scorn;
My goodness which Heav'n pardon, and that fate
Made you hate love, and fall in love with hate.

But I am chang'd! Bright reason, that did give
My soul a noble quickness, made me live
One breath yet longer, and to will and see,
Hath reach'd me pow'r to scorn as well as thee:
That thou, which proudly tramplest on my grave,
Thyself mightst fall, conquer'd my double slave;
That thou mightst sinking in thy triumphs moan,
And I triumph in my destruction.

Hail, holy cold! chaste temper, hail! the fire
Rav'd o'er my purer thoughts I feel t' expire,
And I am candi'd ice. Ye pow'rs, if e'er
I shall be forc'd unto my sepulchre,
Or violently hurl'd into my urn,
Oh, make me choose rather to freeze than burn.





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