Jealousy poems/ page 1 of 16 /
Thus far, O Friend! have we, though leaving muchUnvisited, endeavour'd to retraceMy life through its first years, and measured backThe way I travell'd when I first beganTo love the woods and fields; the passion yetWas in its birth, sustain'd, as might befal,By nourishment that came unsought, for still,From week to week, from month to month, we liv'dA round of tumult: duly were our gamesProlong'd in summer till the day-light fail'd;No chair remain'd before the doors, the benchAnd threshold steps were empty; fast asleepThe Labourer, and the old Man who had sate,A later lingerer, yet the revelryContinued, and the loud uproar: at last,When all the ground was dark, and the huge cloudsWere edged with twinkling stars, to bed we went,With weary joints, and with a beating mind
Is it thy will thy image should keep op'nMy heavy eyelids to the weary night?Dost thou desire my slumbers should be brok'n,While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from theeSo far from home into my deeds to pry,To find out shames and idle hours in me,The scope and tenor of thy jealousy?O no, thy love, though much, is not so great,It is my love that keeps mine eye awake,Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,To play the watch-man ever for thy sake
How sweet is the season, the sky how serene;On Delaware's banks how delightful the scene;The Prince of the Rivers, his waves all asleep,In silence majestic glides on to the Deep.
In BOOK V Eve recounts to Adam the dream, prefiguring her fall, which Satan has inspired; then the Archangel Raphael appears, sent by God to satisfy man's legitimate curiosity, to put him on his guard against Satan and thus to render his disobedience inexcusable
I, with whose colours Myra dress'd her head, I, that ware posies of her own hand-making,I, that mine own name in the chimneys read By Myra finely wrought ere I was waking: Must I look on, in hope time coming may With change bring back my turn again to play?
I, that on Sunday at the church-stile found A garland sweet, with true-love knots in flowers,Which I to wear about mine arm was bound, That each of us might know that all was ours: Must I now lead an idle life in wishes, And follow Cupid for his loaves and fishes?
I, that did wear the ring her mother left, I, for whose love she gloried to be blamed,I, with whose eyes her eyes committed theft, I, who did make her blush when I was named: Must I lose ring, flowers, blush, theft, and go naked, Watching with sighs till dead love be awaked?
I, that, when drowsy Argus fell asleep, Like jealousy o'erwatched with desire,Was even warned modesty to keep, While her breath, speaking, kindled Nature's fire: Must I look on a-cold, while others warm them? Do Vulcan's brothers in such fine nets arm them?
Was it for this that I might Myra see Washing the water with her beauties white?Yet would she never write her love to me
Fond woman, which wouldst have thy husband die,And yet complain'st of his great jealousy;If, swollen with poison, he lay in his last bed,His body with a sere bark covered,Drawing his breath as thick and short as canThe nimblest crocheting musician,Ready with loathsome vomiting to spewHis soul out of one hell into a new,Made deaf with his poor kindred's howling cries,Begging with few feign'd tears great legacies,Thou wouldst not weep, but jolly, and frolic be,As a slave, which to-morrow should be free
Marry, and love thy Flavia, for sheHath all things, whereby others beauteous be;For, though her eyes be small, her mouth is great;Though they be ivory, yet her teeth be jet;Though they be dim, yet she is light enough;And though her harsh hair fall, her skin is tough;What though her cheeks be yellow, her hair's red,Give her thine, and she hath a maidenhead
When Music, heav'nly maid, was young,While yet in early Greece she sung,The Passions oft, to hear her shell,Throng'd around her magic cell,Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,Possest beyond the Muse's painting;By turns they felt the glowing mindDisturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd:Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,From the supporting myrtles roundThey snatch'd her instruments of sound;And as they oft had heard apartSweet lessons of her forceful art,Each, for madness rul'd the hour,Would prove his own expressive pow'r