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Were it that
you so shun me, 'cause you wish
(Cruels't) a fellow
in your wretchednesse,
Or that you take some small
ease in your owne
Torments, to heare another sadly
groane,
I were most happy in my paines, to be
So
truely blest, to be so curst by thee:
But oh! my
cries to that doe rather adde,
Of which too much
already thou hast had,
And thou art gladly sad to
heare my moane;
Yet sadly hearst me with derision.
Thou most unjust, that really dust know,
And
feelst thyselfe the flames I burne in. Oh!
How can
you beg to be set loose from that
Consuming stake you
binde another at?
Uncharitablest both wayes, to
denie
That pity me, for which yourself must dye,
To love not her loves you, yet know the pain
What
'tis to love, and not be lov'd againe.
Flye on,
flye on, swift Racer, untill she
Whom thou of all
ador'st shall learne of thee
The pace t'outfly thee,
and shall teach thee groan,
What terrour 'tis t'outgo
and be outgon.
Nor yet looke back, nor yet must
we
Run then like spoakes in wheeles eternally,
And
never overtake? Be dragg'd on still
By the weake
cordage of your untwin'd will
Round without hope of
rest? No, I will turne,
And with my goodnes boldly
meete your scorne;
My goodnesse 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 soule a noble quicknes, made me live
One breath yet longer, and to will, and see
Hath
reacht me pow'r to scorne as well as thee:
That thou,
which proudly tramplest on my grave,
Thyselfe mightst
fall, conquer'd my double slave:
That thou mightst,
sinking in thy triumphs, moan,
And I triumph in my
destruction.
Hayle, holy cold! chaste temper,
hayle! the fire
Rav'd o're my purer thoughts I feel
t' expire,
And I am candied ice. Yee pow'rs! if e're
I shall be forc't unto my sepulcher,
Or violently
hurl'd into my urne,
Oh make me choose rather to
freeze than burne.
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