Classic Poem

How was I blest, when I was free
From mercy, and from crueltie;
When I could write of Love at eas,
And guesse at Passions in my peace;
When I could sleep, and in my breast
No love-sick thoughts disturb'd my rest:
When in my brain of her sweet face
No torturing Idea was;
Not Planet-struck with her eys light,
But blest with thoughts as calm as night!
Now I could sit, and gaze to death,
And vanish with each sigh I breath:
Or else, in her victorious eye,
Dissolve to tears, dissolving dye.
Nor is my life more pleasant, than
The minutes of condemned men,
Tost by strange fancies, wrackt by fears,
Sunk by despair, and drown'd in tears,
And dead to hope: for what bold Hee
Dares hope for such a blisse, as shee?
And yet I am in love: ah! who
That ever saw her, was not so?
What tiger's unrelenting seed,
Can see such beauties, and not bleed?
Her eies two sparks of heavenly fire
To kindle, and to charm desire;
Her cheeks Aurora's blush; her skin
So delicately smooth, and thin,
That you may see each azure vein;
Her bosomes snowy whitenes stayn;
But with so rich a tincture, as
China 'bove baser metalls has.
Shee's crown'd with unresisted light
Of blooming youth, and vigorous spright,
Carelesse charmes, unstudied sweetnes,
Innate virtue, humble greatnes,
And modest freedome, with each grace
Of body, and of minde, and face:
So pure that men, nor Gods can finde
Throughout that body, or that minde
A fault, but this, to disapprove
Shee canot, or shee will not love.
Ah! then, some God possesse her heart
With mine uncessant vows, and smart:
Grant but one hour that shee may be
In love, and then shee'l pitty mee.
Is it not pitty such a guest,
As cruelty, should arm that breast,
Against a love assaults it so?
Can heavenly mindes such rigour know?
Then make her know, her beauties must
Decay, and molter into dust:
That each swift atome of her glasse
Runs to the ruin of her face:
That those fair blossomes of her youth
Are not so lasting, as my truth,
My lasting firm integritie:
Tell her all this, and if there be
A lesson, to present her sense,
Of more perswading Eloquence,
Teach her that too, for all will prove
Too litle to provoke her love.
Thus dying people use to rave,
And I am grown my Passions slave;
For fall I must, my lot's Despair,
Since I'm so worthless, she so fair.