William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Restoration Verse. 1910.
The MistressJohn Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (16471680)
A
Would seem a winter’s day;
Where life and light, with envious haste,
Are torn and snatched away.
When absent from her eyes;
That fed my love, which is my soul,
It languishes and dies.
It mournfully does move;
And haunts my breast, by absence made
The living tomb of love.
Whose love-sick fancy raves,
On shades of souls, and heaven knows what:
Short ages live in graves.
Of sweetness you did see,
Had you not been profoundly dull,
You had gone mad like me.
My best-belov’d and me,
Sigh and lament, complain and grieve,
You think we disagree.
Love raised to an extreme;
The only proof, ’twixt them and me,
We love, and do not dream.
And in frail joys believe:
Taking false pleasure for true love;
But pain can ne’er deceive.
And anxious cares, when past,
Prove our heart’s treasure fixed and déar,
And make us bless’d at last.