Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou nevermore mayst see, Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness none can know; All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
Wither, yet with thee they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee,—by thee forsaken,
Even my soul forsakes me now;
But 't is done; all words are idle,—
Words from me are vainer still; But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will.
Fare thee well!—thus disunited,
Torn from every nearer tie, Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted,
More than this I scarce can die.
LORD BYRON.
Since there's no helpe,—come, let us kisse and parte,
Nay, I have done,—you get no more of me; And I am glad,—yea, glad with all my hearte,
That thus so cleanly I myselfe can free. Shake hands forever!—cancel all our vows;
And when we meet at any time againe, Be it not seene in either of our brows,
That we one jot of former love retaine.
Now—at the last gaspe of Love's latest breath—
When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies; When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And Innocence is closing up his eyes, Now! if thou wouldst—when all have given him over—
From death to life thou mightst him yet recover.
MICHAEL DRAYTON.