No More Learning

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 ! they cannot thrive
Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst alive
Them any harm, alas ! nor could
Thy death yet do them any good.
I'm sure I never wished them ill ;
Nor do I for all this, nor will :
But, if my simple prayers may yet
Prevail with heaven to forget
Thy murder, I will join my tears.
Rather than fail. But, O my fears !
It cannot die so. Heaven's king
Keeps register of every thing,
And nothing may we use in vain ;
Even beasts must be with justice slain.
Else men are made their deodands.
Though they should wash their guilty hands
In this warm life-blood which doth part
From thine and wound me to the hcurt.