Set by Mr. John Gamble.
TELL me Alexis what this parting is,
That so like dying is, but is not it ?
It is a swounding for a while from blisse,
'Till kind how doe you call's us from the fit.
If then the spirits only stray, let mine
Fly to thy bosome, and my Soule to thine ;
Thus in our native seate we gladly give
Our right, for one where we can better live.
But Ah this ling'ring murdring Farewel !
Death quickly wounds, & wounding cures the ill.
It is the glory of a valiant Lover,
Still to be dying, still for to recover.
Soldiers suspected of their courage goe,
That Ensignes, and their Breasts untorne show :
Love nee're his Standard when his Hoste he sets,
Creates alone fresh-bleeding Bannerets.
But part we, when thy Figure I retaine
Still in my Heart, still strongly in mine Eye ?
Shadowes no longer than the Sun remaine,
But when his beams that made 'em fly, they fly.
Vaine dreames of Love ! that only so much blisse
Allow us, as to know our wretchednesse ;
And deale a larger measure in our Paine
By showing Joy, then hiding it againe.
No, whilst light raigns, Lucasta still rules here,
And all the night shines wholy in this sphere :
I know no Morne but my Alexis Ray,
To my dark thoughts the breaking of the day.
So in each other if the pitying Sun
Thus keep us fixt ; nere may his Course be run !
And Oh ! if Night us undivided make ;
Let us sleepe still, and sleeping never wake !
Cruel Adieu's may well adjourne awhile
The Sessions of a Looke, a Kisse, or Smile,
And leave behinde an angry grieving Blush ;
But time nor Fate can part us joyned thus.
Lovelace, Richard. The Poems of Richard Lovelace.
London: Unit Library, Ltd., 1904. 37-39.
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