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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=499048" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Triumphs Of Philamore And Amoret. To The Noblest Of Our</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sir, your sad absence I complain, as earth<br>Her long-hid spring, that gave her verdures birth,<br>Who now her cheerful aromatick head<br>Shrinks in her cold and dismal widow'd bed;<br>Whilst the false sun her lover doth him move<br>Below, and to th' antipodes make love.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> What fate was mine, when in mine obscure cave<br>(Shut up almost close prisoner in a grave)<br>Your beams could reach me through this vault of night,<br>And canton the dark dungeon with light!<br>Whence me (as gen'rous Spahys) you unbound,<br>Whilst I now know my self both free and crown'd.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> But as at Meccha's tombe, the devout blind<br>Pilgrim (great husband of his sight and mind)<br>Pays to no other object this chast prise,<br>Then with hot earth anoynts out both his eyes:<br>So having seen your dazling glories store,<br>It is enough, and sin for to see more.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Or, do you thus those pretious rayes withdraw<br>To whet my dull beams, keep my bold in aw?<br>Or, are you gentle and compassionate,<br>You will not reach me Regulus his fate?<br>Brave prince! who, eagle-ey'd of eagle kind,<br>Wert blindly damn'd to look thine own self blind!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> But oh, return those fires, too cruel-nice!<br>For whilst you fear me cindars, see, I'm ice!<br>A nummed speaking clod and mine own show,<br>My self congeal'd, a man cut out in snow:<br>Return those living fires. Thou, who that vast<br>Double advantage from one-ey'd Heav'n hast,<br>Look with one sun, though 't but obliquely be,<br>And if not shine, vouchsafe to wink on me.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Perceive you not a gentle, gliding heat,<br>And quick'ning warmth, that makes the statua sweat;<br>As rev'rend Ducaleon's black-flung stone,<br>Whose rough outside softens to skin, anon<br>Each crusty vein with wet red is suppli'd,<br>Whilst nought of stone but in its heart doth 'bide.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> So from the rugged north, where your soft stay<br>Hath stampt them a meridian and kind day;<br>Where now each A LA MODE inhabitant<br>Himself and 's manners both do pay you rent,<br>And 'bout your house (your pallace) doth resort,<br>And 'spite of fate and war creates a court.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> So from the taught north, when you shall return,<br>To glad those looks that ever since did mourn,<br>When men uncloathed of themselves you'l see,<br>Then start new made, fit, what they ought to be;<br>Hast! hast! you, that your eyes on rare sights feed:<br>For thus the golden triumph is decreed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> The twice-born god, still gay and ever young,<br>With ivie crown'd, first leads the glorious throng:<br>He Ariadne's starry coronet<br>Designs for th' brighter beams of Amoret;<br>Then doth he broach his throne, and singing quaff<br>Unto her health his pipe of god-head off.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Him follow the recanting, vexing Nine<br>Who, wise, now sing thy lasting fame in wine;<br>Whilst Phoebus, not from th' east, your feast t' adorn,<br>But from th' inspir'd Canaries, rose this morn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Now you are come, winds in their caverns sit,<br>And nothing breaths, but new-inlarged wit.<br>Hark! One proclaims it piacle to be sad,<br>And th' people call 't religion to be mad.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> But now, as at a coronation,<br>When noyse, the guard, and trumpets are oreblown,<br>The silent commons mark their princes way,<br>And with still reverence both look and pray;<br>So they amaz'd expecting do adore,<br>And count the rest but pageantry before.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Behold! an hoast of virgins, pure as th' air<br>In her first face, ere mists durst vayl her hair:<br>Their snowy vests, white as their whiter skin,<br>Or their far chaster whiter thoughts within:<br>Roses they breath'd and strew'd, as if the fine<br>Heaven did to earth his wreath of swets resign;<br>They sang aloud: &quot;THRICE, OH THRICE HAPPY, THEY<br>THAT CAN, LIKE THESE, IN LOVE BOTH YIELD AND SWAY.&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Next herald Fame (a purple clowd her bears),<br>In an imbroider'd coat of eyes and ears,<br>Proclaims the triumph, and these lovers glory,<br>Then in a book of steel records the story.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> And now a youth of more than god-like form<br>Did th' inward minds of the dumb throng alarm;<br>All nak'd, each part betray'd unto the eye,<br>Chastly: for neither sex ow'd he or she.<br>And this was heav'nly love. By his bright hand,<br>A boy of worse than earthly stuff did stand;<br>His bow broke, his fires out, and his wings clipt,<br>And the black slave from all his false flames stript;<br>Whose eyes were new-restor'd but to confesse<br>This day's bright blisse, and his own wretchednesse;<br>Who, swell'd with envy, bursting with disdain,<br>Did cry to cry, and weep them out again.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> And now what heav'n must I invade, what sphere<br>Rifle of all her stars, t' inthrone her there?<br>No! Phoebus, by thy boys fate we beware<br>Th' unruly flames o'th' firebrand, thy carr;<br>Although, she there once plac'd, thou, Sun, shouldst see<br>Thy day both nobler governed and thee.<br>Drive on, Bootes, thy cold heavy wayn,<br>Then grease thy wheels with amber in the main,<br>And Neptune, thou to thy false Thetis gallop,<br>Appollo's set within thy bed of scallop:<br>Whilst Amoret, on the reconciled winds<br>Mounted, and drawn by six caelestial minds,<br>She armed was with innocence and fire,<br>That did not burn; for it was chast desire;<br>Whilst a new light doth gild the standers by.<br>Behold! it was a day shot from her eye;<br>Chafing perfumes oth' East did throng and sweat,<br>But by her breath they melting back were beat.<br>A crown of yet-nere-lighted stars she wore,<br>In her soft hand a bleeding heart she bore,<br>And round her lay of broken millions more;<br>Then a wing'd crier thrice aloud did call:<br>LET FAME PROCLAIM THIS ONE GREAT PRISE FOR ALL.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> By her a lady that might be call'd fair,<br>And justly, but that Amoret was there,<br>Was pris'ner led; th' unvalewed robe she wore<br>Made infinite lay lovers to adore,<br>Who vainly tempt her rescue (madly bold)<br>Chained in sixteen thousand links of gold;<br>Chrysetta thus (loaden with treasures) slave<br>Did strow the pass with pearls, and her way pave.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> But loe! the glorious cause of all this high<br>True heav'nly state, brave Philamore, draws nigh,<br>Who, not himself, more seems himself to be,<br>And with a sacred extasie doth see!<br>Fix'd and unmov'd on 's pillars he doth stay,<br>And joy transforms him his own statua;<br>Nor hath he pow'r to breath [n]or strength to greet<br>The gentle offers of his Amoret,<br>Who now amaz'd at 's noble breast doth knock,<br>And with a kiss his gen'rous heart unlock;<br>Whilst she and the whole pomp doth enter there,<br>Whence her nor Time nor Fate shall ever tear.<br>But whether am I hurl'd? ho! back! awake<br>From thy glad trance: to thine old sorrow take!<br>Thus, after view of all the Indies store,<br>The slave returns unto his chain and oar;<br>Thus poets, who all night in blest heav'ns dwell,<br>Are call'd next morn to their true living hell;<br>So I unthrifty, to myself untrue,<br>Rise cloath'd with real wants, 'cause wanting you,<br>And what substantial riches I possesse,<br>I must to these unvalued dreams confesse.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> But all our clowds shall be oreblown, when thee<br>In our horizon bright once more we see;<br>When thy dear presence shall our souls new-dress,<br>And spring an universal cheerfulnesse;<br>When we shall be orewhelm'd in joy, like they<br>That change their night for a vast half-year's day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Then shall the wretched few, that do repine,<br>See and recant their blasphemies in wine;<br>Then shall they grieve, that thought I've sung too free,<br>High and aloud of thy true worth and thee,<br>And their fowl heresies and lips submit<br>To th' all-forgiving breath of Amoret;<br>And me alone their angers object call,<br>That from my height so miserably did fall;<br>And crie out my invention thin and poor,<br>Who have said nought, since I could say no more.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Richard+Lovelace">Richard Lovelace</a><div class=q>
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Her long-hid spring, that gave her verdures birth,
Who now her cheerful aromatick head
Shrinks in her cold and dismal widow'd bed;
Whilst the false sun her lover doth him move
Below, and to th' antipodes ..."></div>
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