Robert Southwell (Роберт Саутвелл)
Love’s Servile Lot
LOVE, mistress is of many minds, Yet few know whom they serve; They reckon least how little Love Their service doth deserve. The will she robbeth from the wit, The sense from reason's lore; She is delightful in the rind, Corrupted in the core. She shroudeth vice in virtue's veil, Pretending good in ill She offereth joy, affordeth grief, A kiss where she doth kill. A honey-shower rains from her lips, Sweet lights shine in her face; She hath the blush of virgin mind, The mind of viper's race. She makes thee seek, yet fear to find To find, but not enjoy: In many frowns some gliding smiles She yields to more annoy. She woos thee to come near her fire, Yet doth she draw it from thee; Far off she makes thy heart to fry, And yet to freeze within thee. She letteth fall some luring baits For fools to gather up; Too sweet, too sour, to every taste She tempereth her cup. Soft souls she binds in tender twist, Small flies in spinner's web; She sets afloat some luring streams, But makes them soon to ebb. Her watery eyes have burning force; Her floods and flames conspire: Tears kindle sparks, sobs fuel are, And sighs do blow her fire. May never was the month of love, For May is full of flowers; But rather April, wet by kind, For love is full of showers. Like tyrant, cruel wounds she gives, Like surgeon, salve she lends; But salve and sore have equal force, For death is both their ends. With soothing words enthralled souls She chains in servile bands; Her eye in silence hath a speech Which eye best understands. Her little sweet hath many sours, Short hap immortal harms; Her loving looks are murd'ring darts, Her song bewitching charms. Like winter rose and summer ice, Her joys are still untimely; Before her Hope, behind Remorse: Fair first, in fine unseemly. Moods, passions, fancy's jealous fits Attend upon her train: She yieldeth rest without repose, And heaven in hellish pain. Her house is Sloth, her door Deceit, And slippery Hope her stairs; Unbashful Boldness bids her guests, And every vice repairs. Her diet is of such delights As please till they be past; But then the poison kills the heart That did entice the taste. Her sleep in sin doth end in wrath, Remorse rings her awake; Death calls her up, Shame drives her out, Despairs her upshot make. Plough not the seas, sow not the sands, Leave off your idle pain; Seek other mistress for your minds, Love's service is in vain.
Robert Southwell’s other poems:
964
