The Mistress: A Song

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 woundng 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.

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester

Upon Nothing

Nothing, thou elder brother even to shade,

That hadst a being ere the world was made,

And (well fixed) art alone of ending not afraid.

Ere time and place were, time and place were not,

When primitive Nothing Something straight begot,

Then all proceeded from the great united--What?

Something, the general attribute of all,

Severed from thee, its sole original,

Into thy boundless self must undistinguished fall.

Yet Something did thy mighty power command,

And from thy fruitful emptiness's hand,

Snatched men, beasts, birds, fire, air, and land.

Matter, the wickedest offspring of thy race,

By Form assisted, flew from thy embrace,

And rebel Light obscured thy reverend dusky face.

With Form and Matter, Time and Place did join,

Body, thy foe, with these did leagues combine

To spoil thy peaceful realm, and ruin all thy line.

But turncoat Time assists the foe in vain,

And, bribed by thee, assists thy short-lived reign,

And to thy hungry womb drives back thy slaves again.

Though mysteries are barred from laic eyes,

And the Divine alone with warrant pries

Into thy bosom, where thy truth in private lies,

Yet this of thee the wise may freely say,

Thou from the virtuous nothing takest away,

And to be part of thee the wicked wisely pray.

Great Negative, how vainly would the wise

Inquire, define, distinguish, teach, devise?

Didst thou not stand to point their dull philosophies.

Is, or is not, the two great ends of Fate,

And true or false, the subject of debate,

That perfects, or destroys, the vast designs of Fate,

When they have racked the politician's breast,

Within thy bosom most securely rest,

And, when reduced to thee, are least unsafe and best.

But Nothing, why does Something still permit

That sacred monarchs should at council sit

With persons highly thought at best for nothing fit?

While weighty Something modestly abstains

From princes' coffers, and from statesmen's brains,

And Nothing there like stately Nothing reigns,

Nothing, who dwellest with fools in grave disguise,

For whom they reverend shapes and forms devise,

Lawn sleeves, and furs, and gowns, when they like thee look wise.

French truth, Dutch prowess, British policy,

Hibernian learning, Scotch civility,

Spaniard's dispatch, Dane's wit are mainly seen in thee.

The great man's gratitude to his best friend,

King's promises, whore's vows, towards thee they bend,

Flow swiftly to thee, and in thee never end.

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester

A Song

To this moment a rebel I throw down my arms,

Great Love, at first sight of Olinda's bright charms.

Make proud and secure by such forces as these,

You may now play the tyrant as soon as you please.

When Innocence, Beauty, and Wit do conspire

To betray, and engage, and inflame my Desire,

Why should I decline what I cannot avoid?

And let pleasing Hope by base Fear be destroyed?

Her innocence cannot contrive to undo me,

Her beauty's inclined, or why should it pursue me?

And Wit has to Pleasure been ever a friend,

Then what room for Despair, since Delight is Love's end?

There can be no danger in sweetness and youth,

Where Love is secured by good nature and truth;

On her beauty I'll gaze and of pleasure complain

While every kind look adds a link to my chain.

'Tis more to maintain than it was to surprise,

But her Wit leads in triumpth the slave of her eyes;

I beheld, with the loss of my freedom before,

But hearing, forever must serve and adore.

Too bright is my Goddess, her temple too weak:

Retire, divine image! I feel my heart break.

Help, Love! I dissolve in a rapture of charms

At the thought of those joys I should meet in her arms.

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester

Song

I cannot change, as others do,

Though you unjustly scorn;

Since that poor swain that sighs for you,

For you alone was born.

No, Phyllis, no, your heart to move

A surer way I'll try:

And to revenge my slighted love,

Will still love on, will still love on, and die.

When, killed with grief, Amintas lies

And you to mind shall call,

The sighs that now unpitied rise,

The tears that vainly fall,

That welcome hour that ends this smart

Will then begin your pain;

For such a fauthful tender heart

Can never break, can never break in vain.

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester

A Song

Absent from thee I languish still,

Then ask me not, when I return?

The straying fool 'twill plainly kill

To wish all ay, all night to mourn.

Dear, from thine arms then let me fly,

That my fantastic mind may prove

The torments it deserves to try,

That tears my fixed heart from my love.

When wearied with the world of woe

To thy safe bosom I retire,

Where love and peace and truth does flow,

May I contented there expire,

Lest once more wandering from that Heaven,

I fall on some base heart unblessed;

Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven,

And lose my everlasting rest.

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester

A Woman's Honor: A Song

Love bade me hope, and I obeyed;

Phyllis continued still unkind:

Then you may e'en despair, he said,

In vain I strive to change her mind.

Honor's got in, and keeps her heart,

Durst he but venture once abroad,

In my own right I'd take your part,

And show myself the mightier God.

This huffing Honor domineers

In breasts alone where he has place:

But if true generous Love apppears,

The hector dares not show his face.

Let me still languish and complain,

Be most unhumanly denied:

I have some pleasure in my pain,

She can have none with all her pride.

I fall a sacrifice to Love,

She lives a wretch for Honor's sake;

Whose tyrant does most cruel prove,

The difference is not hard to make.

Consider real Honor then,

You'll find hers cannot be the same;

'Tis noble confidence in men,

In women, mean, mistrustful shame.

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester