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An age in her
embraces passed
Would seem a winter's day;
When
life and light, with envious haste,
Are torn and
snatched away.
But, oh! how slowly minutes roll.
When absent from her eyes
That feed my love, which is
my soul,
It languishes and dies.
For then no
more a soul but shade
It mournfully does move
And
haunts my breast, by absence made
The living tomb of
love.
You wiser men despise me not,
Whose
love-sick fancy raves
On shades of souls and Heaven
knows what;
Short ages live in graves.
Whene'er those wounding eyes, so full
Of sweetness,
you did see,
Had you not been profoundly dull,
You
had gone mad like me.
Nor censure us, you who
perceive
My best beloved and me
Sign and lament,
complain and grieve;
You think we disagree.
Alas, 'tis sacred jealousy,
Love raised to an
extreme;
The only proof 'twixt her and me,
We
love, and do not dream.
Fantastic fancies fondly
move
And in frail joys believe,
Taking false
pleasure for true love;
But pain can ne'er deceive.
Kind jealous doubts, tormenting fears,
And
anxious cares when past,
Prove our heart's treasure
fixed and dear,
And make us blessed at last.
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