Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, REFLECTING ON HIS PASSION FOR HIS MISTRISSE, by JOHN ROE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

REFLECTING ON HIS PASSION FOR HIS MISTRISSE, by                    
First Line: Come, fates; I feare you not. All whom I owe
Last Line: How is't, I now was there, and now I fell.
Subject(s): Passion


Come, Fates; I feare you not. All whom I owe
Are paid, but you. Then 'rest me ere I goe.
But, Chance from you all soveraignty hath got,
Love woundeth none but those whom death dares not;
Else, if you were, and just, in equitie
I should have vanquish'd her, as you did me.
Else Lovers should not brave death's pains, and live,
But 'tis a rule, Death comes not to relieve.
Or, pale and wan deaths terrours, are they lay'd
So deepe in Lovers, they make death afraid?
Or (the least comfort) have I company?
Orecame she Fates, Love, Death, as well as mee?
Yes, Fates doe silke unto her distaffe pay,
For their ransome, which taxe on us they laye.
Love gives her youth, which is the reason why
Youths, for her sake, some wither and some die.
Poore Death can nothing give; yet, for her sake,
Still in her turne, he doth a Lover take:
And if Death should prove false, she feares him not;
Our Muses, to redeeme her she hath got.
That fatall night wee last kiss'd, I thus pray'd,
Or rather, thus despair'd; I should have said:
Kisses, and yet despaire? The forbid tree
Did promise (and deceive) no more then shee.
Like Lambs that see their teats, and must eat Hay,
A food, whose tast hath made me pine away.
Dives, when thou saw'st blisse, and crav'dst to touch
A drop of water, thy great paines were such.
Here griefe wants a fresh wit, for mine being spent,
And my sighes weary, groanes are all my rent;
Vnable longer to indure the paine,
They breake like thunder, and doe bring down rain.
Thus, till dry teares soulder mine eyes, I weepe;
And then, I dreame, how you securely sleepe,
And in your dreames doe laugh at me. I hate,
And pray Love, All may: He pitties my state,
But sayes, I therein no revenge should finde;
The Sunne would shine, though all the world were blind.
Yet, to trie my hate, Love shew'd me your teare;
And I had dy'd, had not your smile beene there.
Your frowne undoes me; your smile is my wealth;
And as you please to looke, I have my health.
Me thought, Love pittying me, when he saw this,
Gave me your hands, the backs and palmes to kisse.
That cur'd me not, but to beare paine gave strength,
And what it lost in force, it tooke in length.
I call'd on Love againe, who fear'd you so,
That his compassion still prov'd greater woe;
For, then I dream'd I was in bed with you,
But durst not feele, for feare't should not prove true.
This merits not your anger, had it beene:
The Queene of Chastitie was naked seene,
And in bed, not to feele, the paine I tooke,
Was more then for Actoeon not to looke.
And that brest which lay ope, I did not know,
But for the clearnesse, from a lump of snowe,
Nor that sweet teat which on the top it bore
From the rose-bud, which for my sake you wore.
These griefs to issue forth, by verse, I prove,
Or turne their course, by travaile, or new love:
All would not doe. The best at last I tryde:
Vnable longer to hould out I dyed.
And then I found I lost life, death by flying:
Who hundreds live are but soe long a dying.
Charon did let me passe: I'le him requite.
To marke the groves or shades wrongs my delight.
I'le speake but of those ghosts I found alone,
Those thousand ghosts, whereof myself made one,
All images of thee. I ask'd them, why?
The Judge told me, all they for thee did dye,
And therefore had for their Elisian blisse,
In one another their owne Loves to kisse.
O here I miss'd not blisse, but being dead;
For loe, I dream'd, I dream'd; and waking said,
Heaven, if who are in thee there must dwell,
How is't, I now was there, and now I fell.





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