Clora, come view my soul, and tell
Whether I have contrived it well.
Now all its several lodging lie
Composed into one gallery;
And the great aras-hangings, made
Of various faces, by are laid;
That, for all furniture, you'll find
Only your picture in my mind.
Here though art painted in the dress
of an inhuman murderess;
Examining upon our hearts
They fertile shop of cruel arts:
Engines more keen than ever yet
Adorned tyrant's cabinet;
Of which the most tormenting are
Black eyes, red lips and curled hair.
But, on the other side thou'rt drawn
Like to Aurora in the dawn;
When in the east she slumb'ring lies,
And stretches out her milky thighs;
While all the morning choir sing,
and manna falls, roses spring;
And, at thy feet, the wooing doves
Sit perfecting their harmless loves.
Like an enchantress here thou show'st
Vexing thy restless lover's ghost;
And, by a light obscure, dost rave
Over his entrails, in the cave;
Divining thence, with horrid care,
How long thou shalt continue fair;
And (when informed) them throw'st away
To be the greedy vulture's prey.
But, against that, thou sit'st afloat
Like Venus in her pearly boat.
The halcyons, calming all that's nigh
Betwix the air and water fly:
Or, if some rolling wave appears,
A mass of ambergris it bears:
Nor blows more wind than what may well
Convoy the perfume to the smell.
These pictures and a thousand more,
Of thee, my gallery do store;
In all the forms thou canst invent
Either to please me, or torment:
For thou alone to people me,
Art grown a num'rous colony;
And a collection choices far
Than or Whitehall's, or Mantua's were.
But of these pictures and the rest,
That at the entrance like me best;
Where the same posture, and the look
Remains, with which i first was took:
A tender shepherdess, who hair
Hangs loosely playing in the air,
Transplanting flowers from the green hill,
To crown her head, bosom fill.
Whether I have contrived it well.
Now all its several lodging lie
Composed into one gallery;
And the great aras-hangings, made
Of various faces, by are laid;
That, for all furniture, you'll find
Only your picture in my mind.
Here though art painted in the dress
of an inhuman murderess;
Examining upon our hearts
They fertile shop of cruel arts:
Engines more keen than ever yet
Adorned tyrant's cabinet;
Of which the most tormenting are
Black eyes, red lips and curled hair.
But, on the other side thou'rt drawn
Like to Aurora in the dawn;
When in the east she slumb'ring lies,
And stretches out her milky thighs;
While all the morning choir sing,
and manna falls, roses spring;
And, at thy feet, the wooing doves
Sit perfecting their harmless loves.
Like an enchantress here thou show'st
Vexing thy restless lover's ghost;
And, by a light obscure, dost rave
Over his entrails, in the cave;
Divining thence, with horrid care,
How long thou shalt continue fair;
And (when informed) them throw'st away
To be the greedy vulture's prey.
But, against that, thou sit'st afloat
Like Venus in her pearly boat.
The halcyons, calming all that's nigh
Betwix the air and water fly:
Or, if some rolling wave appears,
A mass of ambergris it bears:
Nor blows more wind than what may well
Convoy the perfume to the smell.
These pictures and a thousand more,
Of thee, my gallery do store;
In all the forms thou canst invent
Either to please me, or torment:
For thou alone to people me,
Art grown a num'rous colony;
And a collection choices far
Than or Whitehall's, or Mantua's were.
But of these pictures and the rest,
That at the entrance like me best;
Where the same posture, and the look
Remains, with which i first was took:
A tender shepherdess, who hair
Hangs loosely playing in the air,
Transplanting flowers from the green hill,
To crown her head, bosom fill.
No comments:
Post a Comment