To Idera, Speechless

LOng has this grand Mistake deceiv'd Mankind,
To think that Love is only blind;
The Serpent too has lost his Tongue,
When he has any untaught Novice stung.

He leaves his Venom in the rankled Wound,
That closes up as it were sound,
Spreads out into a blushing Cheek,
And yet the Lips hard by can nothing speak.

Whether 'tis Ecstasie, or Fear, or Zeal,
Whose prevalent motions thus we feel,
I know not yet—but this I know,
These are my Symptoms, and my Case is so.

Here in a Hective Fever I must burn,
And I can neither speak nor turn,
Can neither have nor hope for Ease;
Sure 'tis an Incubus is my Disease.

Fain would I tell her plainly all my mind,
But neither Tongue, nor Heart can find;
My conscious guilt, and modest shame,
In Virgin Red stifle my youthful Flame.

'Tis true my Eyes long since betray'd their smart,
When Love shot through into my Heart,
When all your Charms took so much pains
T'infuse an amorous Heat into my Veins.

Excessive hot, or beyond measure cold,
My Fits too violent to hold:
By heat, incapable I'm made;
When cold, I am indifferent and afraid.

Turtles for Mates thus one another Prove,
Their Eyes the measures of their Love.
And thus Pygmalion chose a Wife,
An Ivory Statue carv'd out to the life.