Tixall Poetry.
269
Transform'd so perfectly in what he loves,
That by her motion, not his owne, he moves.
He hath no will but hers, and understands
All things as she conceives them or comands.
He vallewes nothing but at her esteeme,
And so himselfe; nor strives he so to seeme,
Although his owne in nothing, for his zeale
Tells him 'tis merrit, merrit to conceale,
Which makes him practise art to hide his paine,
But still his eyes make that ambition vaine;
For though false flames may be within supprest,
True fires are not contained within a breast.
So that who loves must vent flames through his eyes,
Sigh, flame, or burn a smother'd sacrifice.
His thoughts, words, actions, all are in excess,
For true love hath no measures which express.
Strange force in love! but more that they should prove
Madnes to judgment, reason to his love.
He apprehends no dangers, nor retreats
At any difficultyes, no deceipts
Molest nor injure him, for his owne fire
Is his owne happiness, and its owne hire.
That by her motion, not his owne, he moves.
He hath no will but hers, and understands
All things as she conceives them or comands.
He vallewes nothing but at her esteeme,
And so himselfe; nor strives he so to seeme,
Although his owne in nothing, for his zeale
Tells him 'tis merrit, merrit to conceale,
Which makes him practise art to hide his paine,
But still his eyes make that ambition vaine;
For though false flames may be within supprest,
True fires are not contained within a breast.
So that who loves must vent flames through his eyes,
Sigh, flame, or burn a smother'd sacrifice.
His thoughts, words, actions, all are in excess,
For true love hath no measures which express.
Strange force in love! but more that they should prove
Madnes to judgment, reason to his love.
He apprehends no dangers, nor retreats
At any difficultyes, no deceipts
Molest nor injure him, for his owne fire
Is his owne happiness, and its owne hire.
