Classic Poem

Maybe he takes delight to see in me
The burning rage of hellish jealousy;
Tries if in fury any love appears;
And bathes his joy within my flood of tears.
But if he lov'd to soil my spotless soul,
And me amongst deceived maids enrol,
To publish to the world my open shame:
Then, heart, take freedom; hence, accursed flame;
And, as queen-regent, in my heart shall move
" Disdain, that only over-ruleth Love: "
By this infranchis'd sure my thoughts shall be,
And in the same sort love, as thou lov'st me.
But what? or can I cancel or unbind
That which my heart hath seal'd and love hath sign'd?
No, no, grief doth deceive me more each hour;
" For, who so truly loves, hath not that power. "
I wrong to say so, since of all 'tis known,
" Who yields to love doth leave to be her own. "
But what avails my living thus apart?
Can I forget him? or out of my heart
Can tears expulse his image? surely no.
" We well may fly the place, but not the woe:
Love's fire is of a nature which by turns
Consumes in presence, and in absence burns. "
And knowing this: aye me! unhappy wight!
What means is left to help me in this plight?
And from that peevish shooting, hood-wink'd elf,
To repossess my love, my heart, myself?
Only this help I find, which I elect:
Since what my life nor can nor will effect,
My ruin shall: and by it, I shall find,
" Death cures (when all helps fail) the grieved mind. "
And welcome here (than Love a better guest),
That of all labours art the only rest:
Whilst thus I live, all things discomfort give,
The life is sure a death wherein I live:
Save life and death do differ in this one,
That life hath ever cares, and death hath none.
But if that he (disdainful swain) should know
That for his love I wrought my overthrow;
Will he not glory in't? and from my death
Draw more delights, and give new joys their breath?
Admit he do, yet better 'tis that I
Render myself to Death than misery.
I cannot live, thus barred from his sight,
Nor yet endure, in presence, any wight
Should love him out myself. O Reason's eye,
How art thou blinded with vild jealousy!
And is it thus? Then which shall have my blood,
Or certain ruin, or uncertain good?
Why do I doubt? Are we not still advis'd
" That certainty in all things best is priz'd? "
Then, if a certain end can help my moan,
" Know Death hath certainty, but Life hath none. "
Here is a mount, whose top seems to despise
The far inferior vale that under lies:
Who like a great man rais'd aloft by fate,
Measures his height by others' mean estate: —
Near to whose foot there glides a silver flood.
Falling from hence, I'll climb unto my good,
And by it finish Love and Reason's strife, —
And end my misery as well as life,
But as a coward's heartener in war,
The stirring drum, keeps lesser noise from far:
So seem the murmuring waves tell in mine ear
That guiltless blood was never spilled there.
Then stay a while; the beasts that haunt those springs,
Of whom I hear the fearful bellowings,
May do that deed (as moved by my cry),
Whereby my soul, as spotless ivory,
May turn from whence it came, and, freed from hence,
Be unpolluted of that foul offence.
But why protract I time? death is no stranger:
" And generous spirits never fear for danger:
Death is a thing most natural to us,
And fear doth only make it odious. "
As when to seek her food abroad doth rove
The Nuncius of peace, the seely dove,
Two sharp-set hawks do her on each side hem,
And she knows not which way to fly from them:
Or like a ship, that tossed to and fro
With wind and tide; the wind doth sternly blow,
And drives her to the main, the tide comes sore
And hurls her back again towards the shore;
And since her ballast and her sails do lack,
One brings her out, the other beats her back;
Till one of them increasing more his shocks,
Hurls her to shore, and rends her on the rocks:
So stood she long, 'twixt love and reason toss'd,
Until despair (who where it comes rules most)
Won her to throw herself, to meet with death,
From off the rock into the flood beneath.
The waves that were above when as she fell,
For fear flew back again into their well,
Doubting ensuing times on them would frown,
That they so rare a beauty help'd to drown.
Her fall, in grief, did make the stream so roar,
That sullen murmurings fill'd all the shore.