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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=344361" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Nymph Complaining for the Death of Her Fawn</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The wanton troopers riding by<br>Have shot my fawn, and it will die.<br>Ungentle men! They cannot thrive<br>To kill thee. Thou ne'er didst, alive,<br>Them any harm: alas nor could<br>Thy death yet do them any good.<br>I'm sure I never wished them ill,<br>Nor do I for all this; nor will:<br>But, if my simple pray'rs may yet<br>Prevail with Heaven to forget<br>Thy murder, I will join my tears<br>Rather than fail. But, O my fears!<br>It cannot die so. Heaven's King<br>Keeps register of every thing,<br>And nothing may we use in vain:<br>Ev'n beasts must be with justice slain,<br>Else men are made their deodands.<br>Though they should wash their guilty hands<br>In this warm life-blood, which doth part<br>From thine, and wound me to the heart,<br>Yet could they not be clean; their stain<br>Is dyed in such a purple grain.<br>There is not such another in<br>The world to offer for their sin.<br>Unconstant Sylvio, when yet<br>I had not found him counterfeit,<br>One morning (I remember well),<br>Tied in this silver chain and bell,<br>Gave it to me: nay and I know<br>What he said then -I'm sure I do.<br>Said he, &quot;Look how your huntsman here<br>Hath taught a fawn to hunt his dear.&quot;<br>But Sylvio soon had me beguiled:<br>This waxed tame, while he grew wild,<br>And quite regardless of my smart,<br>Left me his fawn, but took his heart.<br>Thenceforth I set myself to play<br>My solitary time away,<br>With this: and very well content,<br>Could so mine idle life have spent.<br>For it was full of sport, and light<br>Of foot and heart; and did invite<br>Me to its game: it seemed to bless<br>Itself to me. How could I less<br>Than love it? O I cannot be<br>Unkind t' a beast that loveth me.<br>Had it lived long, I do not know<br>Whether it too might have done so<br>As Sylvio did: his gifts might be<br>Perhaps as false or more than he.<br>But I am sure, for aught that I<br>Could in so short a time espy,<br>Thy love was far more better then<br>The love of false and cruel men.<br>With sweetest milk and sugar first<br>I it at mine own fingers nursed.<br>And as it grew, so every day<br>It waxed more white and sweet than they.<br>It had so sweet a breath! And oft<br>I blushed to see its foot more soft<br>And white (shall I say?) than my hand - <br>Nay, any lady's of the land!<br>It is a wond'rous thing how fleet<br>'Twas on those little silver feet;<br>With what a pretty skipping grace<br>It oft would challenge me the race;<br>And when 't had left me far away,<br>'Twould stay, and run again, and stay.<br>For it was nimbler much than hinds;<br>And trod as if on the four winds.<br>I have a garden of my own,<br>But so with roses overgrown<br>And lilies, that you would it guess<br>To be a little wilderness;<br>And all the spring-time of the year<br>It only loved to be there.<br>Among the beds of lilies I<br>Have sought it oft, where it should lie,<br>Yet could not, till itself would rise,<br>Find it, although before mine eyes;<br>For in the flaxen lilies' shade,<br>It like a bank of lilies laid.<br>Upon the roses it would feed,<br>Until its lips ev'n seemed to bleed:<br>And then to me 'twould boldly trip,<br>And print those roses on my lip.<br>But all its chief delight was still<br>On roses thus itself to fill,<br>And its pure virgin limbs to fold<br>In whitest sheets of lilies cold.<br>Had it lived long, it would have been<br>Lilies without, roses within.<br>O help! O help! I see it faint<br>And die as calmly as a saint!<br>See how it weeps! The tears do come<br>Sad, slowly dropping like a gum.<br>So weeps the wounded balsam; so<br>The holy frankincense doth flow;<br>The brotherless Heliades<br>Melt in such amber tears as these.<br>I in a golden vial will<br>Keep these two crystal tears; and fill<br>It till it do o'erflow with mine,<br>Then place it in Diana's shrine.<br>Now my sweet fawn is vanished to<br>Whither the swans and turtles go:<br>In fair Elysium to endure,<br>With milk-white lambs and ermins pure.<br>O do not run too fast, for I<br>Will but bespeak thy grave, and die.<br>First, my unhappy statue shall<br>Be cut in marble; and withal<br>Let it be weeping too: but there<br>Th' engraver sure his art may spare;<br>For I so truly thee bemoan<br>That I shall weep though I be stone,<br>Until my tears, still dropping, wear<br>My breast, themselves engraving there.<br>There at my feet shalt thou be laid,<br>Of purest alabaster made;<br>For I would have thine image be<br>White as I can, though not as thee.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Andrew+Marvell">Andrew Marvell</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=344361" data-title="The Nymph Complaining for the Death of Her Fawn de Andrew Marvell" data-description="The wanton troopers riding by
Have shot my fawn, and it will die.
Ungentle men! They cannot thrive
To kill thee. Thou ne'er didst, alive,
Them any harm: alas nor could
Thy death yet do them any good.
I'm sure I never wished them ill,
Nor do I for ..."></div>
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