Which,
stretched
upright, impales me so
That mine own precipice I go,
And warms and moves this needless frame,
(A fever could but do the same,)
And, wanting where its spite to try.
That mine own precipice I go,
And warms and moves this needless frame,
(A fever could but do the same,)
And, wanting where its spite to try.
Marvell - Poems
DAMON.
Clorinda's voice might make it sweet.
CLORINDA.
Who would not in Pan's praises meet ?
CHORUS.
Of Pan the flowery pastures sing,
Caves echo, and the fountains ring.
Sing then while he doth us inspire ;
For all the world is our Pan's quire.
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44 THE POEMS
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE SOUL AND
BODY.
SOUL.
O who shall from this dungeon raise
A soul enslaved so many ways ?
With bolts of bones, that fettered stands
In feet, . and manacled in hands ;
Here blinded with an eye, and there
Deaf with the drumming of an ear ;
A soul hung up, as 'twere, in chains
Of nerves, and arteries, and veins ;
Tortured, besides each other part,
In a vain head, and double heart ?
BODY.
O who shall me deliver whole.
From bonds of this tyrannic soul.
Which, stretched upright, impales me so
That mine own precipice I go,
And warms and moves this needless frame,
(A fever could but do the same,)
And, wanting where its spite to try.
Has made me live to let me die
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OF MARVELL. 45
A body that could never rest,
Since this ill spirit it possessed ?
SOUL.
What magic could me thus confine
Within another^s grief to pine,
Where, whatsoever it complain,
I feel, that cannot feel, the pain^
And all my care itself employs,
That to preserve, which me destroys ;
Constrained not only to endure
Diseases, but, what's worse, the cure ;
And, ready oil the port to gain.
Am shipwrecked into health again ?
BODY.
But Physic yet could never reach
The maladies thou me dost teach.
Whom first the cramp of hope does tear,.
And then the palsy shakes of fear ;
The pestilence of love does heat.
Or hatred's hidden ulcer eat ;
Joy's cheerful madness does perplex,.
Or sorrow's other madness vex ;
Which knowledge forces me to know,
And memory will not forego ;
What but a soul could have the wit
To build me up for sin so fit?
So architects do squai*c and hew
Green trees that in the forest grew.
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46 THE POEMS
THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE
DEATH OF HER FAWN.
The wanton troopers riding by,
Have shot my fawn, and it will die.
Ungentle men !
