Джон Уилмот, граф Рочестер (John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester)

Текст оригинала на английском языке

The Mistress

        A Song


An Age, in her Embraces past,
     Would seem a Winter's Day;
When Life and Light, with envious haste,
     Are torn and snatch'd away.


But, oh! how slowly Minutes roul,
     When absent from her Eyes;
That fed 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 Heav'n knows what;
     Short Ages live in Graves.


Whene'er those wounding 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 belov'd and me,
Sigh and lament, complain and grieve,
     You think we disagree.


Alas! 'tis sacred Jealousie,
     Love rais'd to an Extream;
The only Proof 'twixt them and me,
     We love, and do not dream.


Fantastick Fancies fondly move;
     And in frail Joys believe:
Taking false Pleasures for true Love;
     But Pain can ne'er deceive.


Kind jealous Doubts, tormenting Fears,
     And anxious Cares, when past,
Prove our Heart's Treasure fix'd and dear,
     And make us bless'd at last. 

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