Fancy and I, last evening, walk'd,
And Amoret, of thee we talk'd;
The West just then had stolen the sun,
And his last blushes were begun:
We sate, and mark'd how everything
Did mourn his absence: how the spring
That smil'd and curl'd about his beams,
Whilst he was here, now check'd her streams:
The wanton eddies of her face
Were taught less noise, and smoother grace;
And in a slow, sad channel went,
Whisp'ring the banks their discontent:
The careless ranks of flowers that spread
Their perfum'd bosoms to his head.
And with an open, free embrace,
Did entertain his beamy face,
Like absent friends point to the West,
And on that weak reflection feast.
If creatures then that have no sense,
But the loose tie of influence,
Though fate and time each day remove
Those things that element their love,
At such vast distance can agree,
Why, Amoret, why should not we?
A SONG TO AMORET.
If I were dead, and in my place
Some fresher youth design'd
To warm thee with new fires, and grace
Those arms I left behind;
Were he as faithful as the sun,
That's wedded to the sphere;
His blood as chaste and temp'rate run,
As April's mildest tear;
Or were he rich, and with his heaps
And spacious share of earth,
Could make divine affection cheap,
And court his golden birth:
For all these arts I'd not believe,
—No, though he should be thine—
The mighty amorist could give
So rich a heart as mine.
Fortune and beauty thou might'st find,
And greater men than I:
But my true resolvèd mind
They never shall come nigh.[51]
For I not for an hour did love,
Or for a day desire,
But with my soul had from above
This endless, holy fire.