That all men should love thee well
Do not fancy 'tis dishonour,
Do not fancy that thine honour
In the use of scorn doth dwell;
Nay, the cruelty restrain
Of the wrongs that thou dost do,
And be pleased with lovers few,
Thus a better name attain.
For thy rigour doth proclaim
That wild beasts did give thee birth,
That the mountains of the earth
Formed thee, harsh, whom none may tame.
For therein is thy delight,
In the moorland and the mead,
Where thou canst not find indeed
One to set thy wish alight.
Once I saw thee all alone,
Seated in a pleasant glade,
And, as I beheld, I said:
''Tis a statue of hard stone.'
Thou didst move and thus my view
Thou didst prove to be mistaken,
'Yet in mood,' I said, unshaken,
'She is more than statue, true.'
Would that thou a statue were,
Made of stone, for then I might
Hope that Heaven for my delight
Would thee change to woman fair!
For Pygmalion could not be
So devoted to his queen,
As I am and aye have been
And shall ever be to thee.
Thou repayest, as is due,
Good and ill, I murmur not,
Glory for the good I wrought,
Suffering for the ill I do.
And this truth is shown abroad
In the way thou treatest me,
Life it gives me thee to see,
Thou dost slay me by thy mood.
Of that breast which maketh bold
Love's encounters to despise,
May the fire that in my sighs
Gloweth, somewhat melt the cold,
May my tears this boon obtain,
Tears that never, never, rest,
That for one short hour thy breast
May be sweet and kind again.
Well I know thou wilt declare
That I am too long; 'tis true,
My desire make less, I too
Then will lesser make my prayer;
But according to the way
Thou dost deal with my requests,
Thee it little interests
Whether less or more I pray.
If I might in words essay
To reproach thy cruelty,
And that sign point out to thee
Which our weakness doth display,
I would say, when I did learn
What thou art, no longer blind:
'Thou art rock, bear this in mind,
And to rock thou must return.'
Whether rock or steel thou art,
Adamant or marble hard,
Steel, I am thy loving bard,
Rock, I love with all my heart;
Angel veiled, or fury, know
That the truth is all too plain,
I live, by the angel slain,
By the fury brought to woe.