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The Mistress

by
 An age in her embraces passed
Would seem a winter's day;
When life and light, with envious haste,
Are torn and snatched away.
But, oh! how slowly minutes roll.
When absent from her eyes That feed 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 Heaven 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 beloved and me Sign and lament, complain and grieve; You think we disagree.
Alas, 'tis sacred jealousy, Love raised to an extreme; The only proof 'twixt her and me, We love, and do not dream.
Fantastic fancies fondly move And in frail joys believe, Taking false pleasure for true love; But pain can ne'er deceive.
Kind jealous doubts, tormenting fears, And anxious cares when past, Prove our heart's treasure fixed and dear, And make us blessed at last.

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