John Dryden (1631–1700). The Poems of John Dryden. 1913.
Songs from the PlaysBlind Love, to this hour, from Sir Martin Marr-All (after Voiture)
B
Had never like me, a Slave under his Pow’r.
Then blest be the Dart
That he threw at my heart,
For nothing can prove
A joy so great as to be wounded with love.
Are fill’d to the purpose with sorrows and frights;
From my heart still I sigh,
And my Eyes are ne’r dry,
So that, Cupid be prais’d.
I am to the top of Love’s happiness rais’d.
So that I have the pleasure to dote and desire,
Such a pretty soft pain,
That it tickles each vein,
’Tis the dream of a smart,
Which makes me breathe short when it beats at my heart.
When I am despis’d, I my freedom would get;
But straight a sweet smile
Does my anger beguile,
And my heart does recall,
Then the more I do struggle the lower I fall.
Such a grace as to love unto ev’ry one’s heart;
For many may wish
To be wounded, and miss.
Then blest be loves Fire,
And more blest her Eyes that first taught me desire.