O Tell If Any Fate You See
O Tell if any fate you see
Can more unhappy prove
Than where the nymph will cruell be
& still the swain must love
Twere Joy to sigh & serve a fair
Coud sighs & service gain
But if they not availing are
they grow the lovers pain
Damon as thus he spoke his grief
Thought all around him pind
But Celia bringing no relief
He Car'd not what was kind
poem by Thomas Parnell
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Licia Sonnets 40
My grief begun, fair saint, when first I saw
Love in those eyes sit ru]ing with disdain,
Whose sweet commands did keep a world in awe,
And caused them serve your favor to obtain.
I stood as one enchanted with a frown,
Yet smiled to see all creatures serve those eyes,
Where each with sighs paid tribute to that crown,
And thought them gracéd by your dumb rep]ies.
But I, ambitious, could not be content
Till that my service more than sighs made known;
And for that end my heart to you I sent
To say and swear that, fair, it is your own.
Then greater graces, Licia, do impart,
Not dumb replies unto a speaking heart.
poem by Giles Fletcher The Elder
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A Song. Go Tell Amynta, Gentle Swain
1.
Go tell Amynta, gentle swain,
I would not die, nor dare complain.
Thy tuneful voice with numbers join,
Thy voice will more prevail than mine;
For souls opprest and dumb with grief,
The gods ordain'd this kind relief.
That music should in sounds convey
What dying lovers dare not say.
2.
A sigh or tear perhaps she'll give,
But love on pity cannot live:
Tell her that hearts for hearts were made,
And love with love is only paid,
Tell her my pains so fast increase
That soon it will be past redress;
For the wretch that speechless lies,
Attends but death to close his eyes.
poem by John Dryden
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The Depth Of Grief
The depth of grief is hard to measure
For the pain inside it that is treasures
Is so much and so bitter and hard
That everone wants it to totally discard
But one thing taht we must keep in mind
Is to always seek ways with others to be kind
No matter what we are going through
We must be honest and sincere too
And always remember these pain and grief
Are only let out and gets a relief
If they are given a chance to drop
From inside painful injured heart's top
And then all life's pain and sigh
Will leave your soul and will say goodbye
And then in your heart all pain and grief
Will not get a place, not even brief.
poem by Seema Chowdhury
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An Ode : While From Our Looks, Fair Nymph, You Guess
While from our looks, fair nymph, you guess
The secret passions of our mind;
My heavy eyes, you say, confess
A heart to love and grief inclined.
There needs, alas! but little art
To have this fatal secret found;
With the same ease you threw the dart,
'Tis certain you can show the wound.
How can I see you, and not love,
While you as opening cast are fair?
While cold as northern blasts you prove,
How can I love, and not despair?
The wretch in double fetters bound
Your potent mercy may release;
Soon, if my love but once were crown'd,
Fair prophetess, my grief would cease.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Cupid and Plutus
When Celia, love's eternal foe,
To rich old Gomez first was married;
And angry Cupid came to know
His shafts had err'd, his bow miscarried;
He sigh'd, he wept, he hung his head,
On the cold ground, full sad, he laid him;
When Plutus, there by fortune led,
In this desponding plight survey'd him.
'And sure,' he cried, 'you'll own at last
Your boasted power by mine exceeded:
Say, wretched boy, now all is past,
How little she your efforts heeded.
'If with success you would assail,
Gild, youngster, doubly gild your arrows:
Little the feather'd shafts avail,
Though wing'd from mamma's doves and sparrows.
'What though each reed, each arrow grew,
Where Venus bathed herself; depend on't,
'Twere more for use, for beauty too,
A diamond sparkled at the end on't.'
'Peace, Plutus, peace!'-the boy replied;
'Were not my arts by yours infested,
I could each other power deride,
And rule this circle unmolested.
'See yonder pair! no worldly views
In Chloe's generous breast resided:
Love bade her the spruce valet choose,
And she by potent love was guided.
'For this, she quits her golden dreams,
In her gilt coach no more she ranges:
And her rich crimson, bright with gems,
For cheeks impearl'd with tears, she changes.
'Though sordid Celia own'd your power,
Think not so monstrous my disgrace is:
You gain'd this nymph-that very hour
I gain'd a score in different places.'
poem by William Shenstone
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Divine Device
Would it be loss or gain
To hapless human-kind
If we could feel no pain
Of body or of mind?
Would it be for our good
If we were calloused so,
And God in mercy should
End all our woe?
I wonder and I doubt:
It is my bright belief
We should be poor without
The gift of grief.
For suffering may be
A blessing, not a bane,
And though we sorrow we
Should praise for Pain.
Aye, it's my brave belief
That grateful we should be,
Since in the heart of grief
Is love and sympathy,
We do not weep in vain,
So let us kiss the rod,
And see in purging Pain
The Grace of God.
poem by Robert William Service
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An Elegy on a Lap-dog
1 Shock's fate I mourn; poor Shock is now no more,
2 Ye Muses mourn, ye chamber-maids deplore.
3 Unhappy Shock! yet more unhappy fair,
4 Doom'd to survive thy joy and only care!
5 Thy wretched fingers now no more shall deck,
6 And tie the fav'rite ribbon round his neck;
7 No more thy hand shall smooth his glossy hair,
8 And comb the wavings of his pendent ear.
9 Yet cease thy flowing grief, forsaken maid;
10 All mortal pleasures in a moment fade:
11 Our surest hope is in an hour destroy'd,
12 And love, best gift of heav'n, not long enjoy'd.
13 Methinks I see her frantic with despair,
14 Her streaming eyes, wrung hands, and flowing hair
15 Her Mechlen pinners rent the floor bestrow,
16 And her torn fan gives real signs of woe.
17 Hence Superstition, that tormenting guest,
18 That haunts with fancied fears the coward breast;
19 No dread events upon his fate attend,
20 Stream eyes no more, no more thy tresses rend.
21 Tho' certain omens oft forewarn a state,
22 And dying lions show the monarch's fate;
23 Why should such fears bid Celia's sorrow rise?
24 For when a lap-dog falls no lover dies.
25 Cease, Celia, cease; restrain thy flowing tears,
26 Some warmer passion will dispel thy cares.
27 In man you'll find a more substantial bliss,
28 More grateful toying, and a sweeter kiss.
29 He's dead. Oh lay him gently in the ground!
30 And may his tomb be by this verse renown'd.
31 Here Shock, the pride of all his kind, is laid;
32 Who fawn'd like man, but ne'er like man betray'd.
A Ballad
To that dear nymph, whose pow'rful name
Does every throbbing nerve inflame
(As the soft sound I low repeat,
My pulse unequal measures beat),
Whose eyes I never more shall see,
That once so sweetly shin'd on thee;
Go, gentle wind! and kindly bear
My tender wishes to the fair.
Hoh, ho, ho, &c.
Amidst her pleasures let her know
The secret anguish of my woe,
The midnight pang, the jealous hell,
Does in this tortur'd bosom dwell:
While laughing she, and full of play,
Is with her young companions gay;
Or hearing in some fragrant bower
Her lover's sigh, and beauty's power.
Hoh, ho, ho, &c.
Lost and forgotten may I be!
Oh may no pitying thought of me
Disturb the joy that she may find,
When love is crown'd and fortune kind:
May that bless'd swain (whom yet I hate)
Be proud of his distinguish'd fate:
Each happy night be like the first;
And he be bless'd as I am curs'd.
Hoh, ho, ho, &c.
While in these pathless woods I stray,
And lose my solitary way;
Talk to the stars, to trees complain,
And tell the senseless words my pain:
But madness spares the sacred name,
Nor dares the hidden wound proclaim;
Which, secret rankling, sure and slow,
Shall close in endless peace my woe.
Hoh, ho, ho, &c.
When this fond heart shall ache no more,
And all the ills of life are o'er
(If gods by lovers' prayers are mov'd,
As ev'ry god in heaven has lov'd);
Instead of bright Elysian joys,
That unknown something in the skies,
In recompense of all my pain,
The only heaven I'd obtain,
May I, the guardian of her charms,
Preserve that paradise from harms.
Hoh, ho, ho, &c.
poem by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
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Songs Set To Music: 4. Set By Mr. Smith
Come, weep no more, for 'tis in vain;
Torment not thus your pretty heart;
Think, Flavia, we may meet again,
As well as that we now must part.
You sigh and weep; the gods neglect
That precious dew your eyes let fall;
Our joy and grief with like respect
They mind, and that is not at all.
We pray, in hopes they will be kind,
As if they did regard our state;
They hear, and the return we find
Is, that no prayers can alter Fate.
Then clear your brow, and look more gay;
Do not yourself to grief resign;
Who knows but that those powers may
The pair they now have parted join?
But since they have thus cruel been,
And could such constant lovers sever,
I dare not trust, lest, now they're in,
They should divide us two for ever.
Then, Flavia, come, and let us grieve,
Remembering, though, upon what score;
This our last parting look believe,
Believe we must embrace no more.
Yet should our sun shine out at last,
And Fortune, without more deceit,
Throw but one reconciling cast,
To make two wandering lovers meet;
How great then would our pleasures be
To find heaven kinder than believed,
And we, who had no hopes to see
Each other, to be thus deceived!
But say, should heaven bring no relief;
Suppose our sun should never rise;
Why, then, what's due to such a grief
We've paid already with our eyes.
poem by Matthew Prior
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The Thought That Changed The World
Sometimes a kind thought can change the world,
Like a butterflies wings swishing the air,
A thought can ripple across the world,
Bringing a tear of joy to a heart in pain,
Without a thought of personal gain,
Compassion for another being,
This is what brings our hearts together,
A few kind words is all it takes,
To mend the hearts that break,
Love is real,
Break away from all that is fake,
Let your spirit awake,
Then we can all be great!
poem by David Andre' Klopper
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I Cannot Change, As Others Do
I cannot change, as others do,
Though you unjustly scorn;
Since that poor swain that sighs for you,
For you alone was born.
No, Phyllis, no, your heart to move
A surer way I'll try:
And to revenge my slighted love,
Will still love on, will still love on, and die.
When, killed with grief, Amintas lies
And you to mind shall call,
The sighs that now unpitied rise,
The tears that vainly fall,
That welcome hour that ends this smart
Will then begin your pain;
For such a fauthful tender heart
Can never break, can never break in vain.
poem by Lord John Wilmot
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The Dying Lover
I cannot change, as others do,
Though you unjustly scorn;
Since that poor swain that sighs for you,
For you alone was born.
No, Phyllis, no, your heart to move
A surer way I'll try:
And to revenge my slighted love,
Will still love on, will still love on, and die.
When, killed with grief, Amintas lies
And you to mind shall call,
The sighs that now unpitied rise,
The tears that vainly fall,
That welcome hour that ends this smart
Will then begin your pain;
For such a faithful tender heart
Can never break, can never break in vain.
poem by Lord John Wilmot
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Constancy
I cannot change, as others do,
Though you unjustly scorn;
Since that poor swain, that sighs for you
For you alone was born.
No, Phyllis, no, your heart to move
A surer way I'll try:
And to revenge my slighted love,
Will still love on, will still love on, and die.
When, kill'd with grief, Amyntas lies;
And you to mind shall call
The sighs that now unpitied rise;
The tears that vainly fall:
That welcome hour that ends this smart,
Will then begin your pain;
For such a faithful, tender heart
Can never break, can never break in vain.
poem by Lord John Wilmot
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The Resolution
The Favours of Fortune I once hop'd to gain,
And often invok'd her, but ever in vain.
She despis'd my Addresses, which gave me such Grief,
I flew to the Muses, in Hopes of Relief.
Ah Wretch that I was! I might very well know,
'Twas the Method to make her for ever my Foe.
They laugh'd at the Goddess, and bid me despise her;
But Time and Experience have made me grow wiser.
This unhappy Mistake I resolve to repair.
O Fortune! thy Votaries must persevere.
poem by Mary Barber
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Satyr V. Verse
Thou soft Engager of my tender years
Divertive verse now come & ease my cares
The Rake has wine the aged knave ye view
Of what his death bed Charity will do
to lay his cares & mine are layd by you
You give my mind when I unbend relief
Raise ev'ry Joy & lessen ev'ry grief
Nor do I onely these thy comforts find
thy comforts are diffusive to mankind
The men of sense of buisness or of whims
half witts or lovers ev'ry one sometimes
Will toy away a vacant hour in rimes
& they give all but lovers troubles ease
the Muses fires the flames of love encrease
Yet the fond fooles write more yn all ye rest
as if they studyd to be more unblest
of Moving things they speak in moving strains
& moan & beg a cure of all their pains
till at the last theyre workd to a belief
that what they said has been their reall grief
As strong as fate they call the chains they wear
To starrs & Angells ev'ry nymph compare
Then think their chains as strong, their nymphs as fair
thus our loves more & more the womens pride
so the wounds deeper & the cure denyd
Long may you gentle souls your fetters wear
if still you write upon ye pangs you bear
Yet know that writing makes them more severe
If Celia or Aminta scornfull grow
On the great praises which your lines bestow
Long may you feel them since you make ym so
Verse is on other subjects less unkind
& with its transports brightens up ye mind
the Drunkards catch is half the rogues delight
Where noise & briskness do their charms unite
The drawers calld & ink & paper brought
& so extempore the work is wrought
While wine inspires they never stay for thought
the Jolly words are roard in tunefull sound
While the full bottles run the tables round
& Ecchoes from the Empty ones rebound
Raisd to the Joyes above the cares of kings
their singing makes ym drink their drinking sing
O happy men if twere not for the curse
of qualms repentance & an empty purse
but happy men at least for some few hours
Who force the Muse to nothing else but rime
& when your sense is drownd sing off yr time
Verse has another powr on other men
When the vexd thoughts by writing grow serene
full of the spleen & rage & scorn to see
the tide of vice & folly run so high
some from the world retire to poetry
& when their pens what grieves their bosoms speak
how honesty's a cully witt a rake
fair Virtue beggerd beauty grown a baud
Religion made a masque & gold a God
their breasts find ease by laying down their load
so Prophetts usd inspird of old to swell
& when they spoke their Oracles grew well
For me who never have a drinker been
Nor provd the witty forces of the spleen
for me who be it chance or carelessness
(forgive me half the world when I confess)
have never been in love in all my dayes
On other principles my pen I take
for meer disintrested diversions sake
I onely write as many lovers woo
but just when I have nothing else to do
& then to please my self as well as you
I seek no praise & keep me safe from shame
Not known to many & unknown to fame
I woud not blunty rail a folly down
Nor with undecent rage on vices run
Our master Horace wisely sung of old
that satyrs better if it Jear then scold
the Gall too much prevailing spoils the ink
Nor woul I frett mankind but make ym think
tis farr more human thus to show ye place
Where you ly open then throw in ye pass
poem by Thomas Parnell
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0234 The Book To The Reader
The book said:
I serve you. And
as you take from me, I
give myself to you; even
before you begin
to read me.
I note how gently
you pick me up from
where you laid me down,
pausing just before you touch me; and
I feel your mind surrendering
with relief all other matters which
weigh down the mind; as one
who sheds his clothes and dives
into cool, clear water on a sunny day
and when you begin to read me, I
feel your hands, not gripping me but
sensing the film of air between
your hands and my cover; the lovely
detachment of a shared love; you
respect me for my outer self as
you respect what I have to give
and when you put me down,
you put me down so tenderly,
first looking for the perfect place
to leave me; with, I sense,
an inward sigh of satisfaction, gratitude, but which
meets the sigh of parting; like
the parting pause of lovers
and, like lovers who have grown old together,
we put out of mind the passing sigh of
yet a different kind; that one of us one day
will be – not the first, that’s easy – but
the second one to go… that’s
the eternal test of love: loss to be measured
against gratitude, the final laying down
on the altar, of the book of life
all this I appreciate;
did you too know this? are we not
fortunate in each other, you and I?
said the book.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Weeping
While Celia's Tears make sorrow bright,
Proud Grief sits swelling in her eyes;
The Sun, next those the fairest light,
Thus from the Ocean first did rise:
And thus thro' Mists we see the Sun,
Which else we durst not gaze upon.
These silver drops, like morning dew,
Foretell the fervour of the day:
So from one Cloud soft show'rs we view,
And blasting lightnings burst away.
The Stars that fall from Celia's eye
Declare our Doom in drawing nigh.
The Baby in that sunny Sphere
So like a Phaeton appears,
That Heav'n, the threaten'd World to spare,
Thought fit to drown him in her tears;
Else might th' ambitious Nymph aspire,
To set, like him, Heav'n too on fire.
poem by Alexander Pope
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I sigh
I sit here and sigh, I dont know why
mayby it is a sigh of relief
my delight; delighted at the loss of grief
but agsighity still takes control...
grabbing hold of my sole.
I think well, but too far ahead
holding fear, to Mary I hail
giving myself no oppertunity to fail
yes, I should learn from mistakes
grow stronger and work harder
for you, I say an our father
what if my one chance flys into the mist
theres no secound, mistake it cant exsist
so watch me dance with the one chance
I do it time after time and im afraid
in case I am an extra in this parade
from day one I said it, I am no liar
its not to prove a point more to inspire
I continue to try as today is tonight
tomorow is new and thats why i sigh.
poem by Daniel McCann
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Farewell, Fair Armida. A Song
Farewell, fair Armida, my joy and my grief!
In vain I have loved you, and hope no relief;
Undone by your virtue, too strict and severe,
Your eyes gave me love, and you gave me despair:
Now called by my honour, I seek with content
The fate which in pity you would not prevent:
To languish in love were to find, by delay,
A death that's more welcome the speediest way.
On seas and in battles, in bullets and fire,
The danger is less than in hopeless desire;
My death's wound you give me, though far off I bear
My fall from your sight—not to cost you a tear:
But if the kind flood on a wave should convey,
And under your window my body should lay,
The wound on my breast when you happen to see,
You'll say with a sigh—it was given by me.
poem by John Dryden
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Tears and pain
Tears and pain in eyes
What do the people talk and try?
What do they have idea about pain and smile?
When have they under gone agony meanwhile?
No one may be able to explain
As it is really true pain
On love there is loss only and no gain
But love is love and no matter how much is the pain
Can any one guess?
What can be worry on face?
Who would love to show it or chase?
When happiness is lost in advance
Lovers are different kind of animals
Happiness and joy is known only on its arrival
They are unaware of separation and sadness
When that comes before them in some cases
I shall salute for their feeling
As it is outcome of pure willing
No one demands as pre condition
It is self emotion with ignition
No one knows where they will be driven?
What will be their fate incase forgotten
It is purely a chance and coincidence
There is no yes for insistence
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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