Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ADDRESSED TO LADY --, WHO ASKED WHAT THE PASSION OF LOVE WAS, by CHARLES MORRIS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ADDRESSED TO LADY --, WHO ASKED WHAT THE PASSION OF LOVE WAS, by                    
First Line: You ask me, what's love? - why, that virtue-fed vapour
Last Line: And to hear it I'd always be willing and mute.
Subject(s): Love; Passion


YOU ask me, What's love?—Why, that virtue-fed vapour,
Which poets spread over our longings like gauze,
May do for a swain who can feed upon paper;
But flesh is my diet, and blood is the cause.

A delicate tendre, spun into Platonic,
Suits the feminine fop,—whom no beauties provoke;
But the blood of a Welshman is hot and laconic,
And he loves as he fights, with a word and a stroke.

Yet, I grant you, there is a sweet madness of passion,
A raptured delirium of mental delight;
Though, alas! my dear Madam, not five in the nation
Whose souls have an optic to view the blest light.

But we speak not of minds of distinguished selection,
But love, common love, in its earthly attire,
Which, believe me, when dressed in this high-flown affection,
Wears the threadbare disguise of a bankrupt desire.

For the bosom's deceit, like the spendthrift's profusion,
As the substance declines rich appearances tries;
More gay as more weak, till this splendid delusion
In a pang of bright vanity dazzles and dies.

Ah! if, in a strain of pure sentiment showing,
No animal warmth checks the eloquent tongue,
'Tis the trick of a coxcomb to boast your undoing,
And pride, taste, or impotence prompts the foul wrong!

For love, in a tumult of soft agitation,
O'ercome with its ardour, bids language retire;
And, lost in emotions of troubled sensation,
Still breathes the soft accent of silent desire.

Yes, the god's on the wing when a delicate Damon
In sickly composure sits down to refine;
For love, like a hectic, when weakly the stamen,
Still brightens the skin as the solids decline.

If such be the love you propose in the question,
No doubt it's a phantom, dressed up by the mind;
And, believe me, it is not a substance to rest on,
But the fraud of cold bosoms and vanities blind.

But for me, my dear Madam, a poor carnal sinner,
Whose love keeps no Lent, or on rhapsody starves,With the sharp sauce of
hunger I fall to my dinner,
And take, without scruple, what appetite carves.

So, my good Lady ****, all beauty and merit,
You see, though I dote on your face and your mind,
The devil a grain should I feel of love's spirit,
If looks didn't warrant your shape and your kind.

With this taste you, perhaps, will upbraid my vile nature:
But thus stands the case, and in truth to my theme,
Were my mistress the first both in mind and in feature,
Unsex her, and passion would fade like a dream.

As a poet, indeed, I've a licence for fiction,
To dress in heroics the treacherous heart;
But take the sad truth, and excuse the plain diction,
For love moves with me in an honester part.

But, perhaps, you may know something more of the matter;
Then deign to inform the dull soul of a brute—
A hint of your mind would most pleasingly flatter,
And to hear it I'd always be willing and mute.





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