VII. “Nature’s lay idiot, I taught thee to love”

NATURE’S lay idiot, I taught thee to love,

And in that sophistry, O! thou dost prove

Too subtle; fool, thou didst not understand

The mystic language of the eye nor hand;

Nor couldst thou judge the difference of the air

Of sighs, and say, “This lies, this sounds despair”;

Nor by th’ eye’s water cast a malady

Desperately hot, or changing feverously.

I had not taught thee then the alphabet

Of flowers, how they, devisefully being set

And bound up, might with speechless secrecy

Deliver errands mutely, and mutually.

Remember since all thy words used to be

To every suitor, “Ay, if my friends agree;”

Since household charms, thy husband’s name to teach,

Were all the love-tricks that thy wit could reach;

And since an hour’s discourse could scarce have made

One answer in thee, and that ill array’d

In broken proverbs, and torn sentences.

Thou art not by so many duties his—

That from th’ world’s common having sever’d thee,

Inlaid thee, neither to be seen, nor see—

As mine; who have with amorous delicacies

Refined thee into a blissful paradise.

Thy graces and good works my creatures be;

I planted knowledge and life’s tree in thee;

Which O! shall strangers taste? Must I, alas!

Frame and enamel plate, and drink in glass?

Chafe wax for other’s seals? break a colt’s force,

And leave him then, being made a ready horse?