An age in her embraces passed <br />Would seem a winter's day; <br />When life and light, with envious haste, <br />Are torn and snatched away. <br /> <br />But, oh! how slowly minutes roll. <br />When absent from her eyes <br />That feed my love, which is my soul, <br />It languishes and dies. <br /> <br />For then no more a soul but shade <br />It mournfully does move <br />And haunts my breast, by absence made <br />The living tomb of love. <br /> <br />You wiser men despise me not, <br />Whose love-sick fancy raves <br />On shades of souls and Heaven knows what; <br />Short ages live in graves. <br /> <br />Whene'er those woundng eyes, so full <br />Of sweetness, you did see, <br />Had you not been profoundly dull, <br />You had gone mad like me. <br /> <br />Nor censure us, you who perceive <br />My best beloved and me <br />Sign and lament, complain and grieve; <br />You think we disagree. <br /> <br />Alas, 'tis sacred jealousy, <br />Love raised to an extreme; <br />The only proof 'twixt her and me, <br />We love, and do not dream. <br /> <br />Fantastic fancies fondly move <br />And in frail joys believe, <br />Taking false pleasure for true love; <br />But pain can ne'er deceive. <br /> <br />Kind jealous doubts, tormenting fears, <br />And anxious cares when past, <br />Prove our heart's treasure fixed and dear, <br />And make us blessed at last.<br /><br />Lord John Wilmot<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-mistress-2/
