142
GONDIBERT,
20.
He that had serv'd great Love with rev'rend heart,
In these old wounds, worse wounds from him endures,
For Love, makes Birtha shift with Death, his Dart,
And she kills faster than her Father cures.
He that had serv'd great Love with rev'rend heart,
In these old wounds, worse wounds from him endures,
For Love, makes Birtha shift with Death, his Dart,
And she kills faster than her Father cures.
21.
Her heedless innocence as little knew
The wounds she gave, as those from Love she took;
And Love lifts high each secret Shaft he drew;
Which at their Stars he first in triumph shook!
Her heedless innocence as little knew
The wounds she gave, as those from Love she took;
And Love lifts high each secret Shaft he drew;
Which at their Stars he first in triumph shook!
22.
Love he had lik'd, yet never lodg'd before;
But finds him now a bold unquiet Guest;
Who climbs to windows, when we shut the Door;
And enter'd, never lets the Master rest.
Love he had lik'd, yet never lodg'd before;
But finds him now a bold unquiet Guest;
Who climbs to windows, when we shut the Door;
And enter'd, never lets the Master rest.
23.
So strange disorder; now he pines for health,
Makes him conceal this Reveller with shame;
She not the Robber knows, yet feels the stealth,
And never but in Songs had heard his name.
So strange disorder; now he pines for health,
Makes him conceal this Reveller with shame;
She not the Robber knows, yet feels the stealth,
And never but in Songs had heard his name.
24.
Yet then it was, when she did smile at Hearts
Which Countrey Lovers wear in bleeding Seals;
Ask'd where his pretty Godhead found such Darts,
As make those wounds that onely Hymen heals.
Yet then it was, when she did smile at Hearts
Which Countrey Lovers wear in bleeding Seals;
Ask'd where his pretty Godhead found such Darts,
As make those wounds that onely Hymen heals.
25.
And this, her ancient Maid, with sharp complaints
Heard, and rebuk'd; shook her experienc'd Head,
With tears bosought her not to jest at Saints,
Nor mock those Martyrs, Love had Captive led.
And this, her ancient Maid, with sharp complaints
Heard, and rebuk'd; shook her experienc'd Head,
With tears bosought her not to jest at Saints,
Nor mock those Martyrs, Love had Captive led.
26.
Nor think the pious Poets ere would waste
So many tears in Ink, to make Maids mourn,
If injur'd Lovers had in ages past
The lucky Mirtle, more than Willow worn.
Nor think the pious Poets ere would waste
So many tears in Ink, to make Maids mourn,
If injur'd Lovers had in ages past
The lucky Mirtle, more than Willow worn.
This
