To Amasia ("As Men on Racks feel")

As Men on Racks feel Tortures, and complain;
Severer far than theirs, my Mortal pain:
So, do I feel, sigh so, like them in vain.
Like them confessing dying Truths at last,
And blest that Power which Tortures me so fast.
Compar'd with mine —
Small is the greatest Malefactor's smart;
Wheels break their Limbs, Love gnaws, and Tears my Heart.
Stay, let me tell my Num'rous suff'rings o'er,
And think — O no; — no let me think no more.
Ambition vast my Airy Thoughts pursue,
Confus'd, of all things, and yet all of you.
You all my Notions, all my Sense Enthral,
Confin'd — confin'd to you? yet you are all.
Now, to Amasia's Charms alone I bow,
Then she disdains —
My own desire must be my Mistress now.
Where can my Anxious Soul at last have rest?
There is no Calm, but in Amasia's Breast.
Whene'er I see […], […], step, or move,
My Soul's on Fire, and I am all o'er […]
Thro' every Vein the subtile Poyson flies,
And dancing, leaps at my enlighten'd Eyes.
Thick on my Heart dashes my boiling Blood,
Wash'd like some Rock by the insulting Flood.
Yet not unmov'd; it trembles at each touch;
Mine's sure no Rock, your Heart is only such.
Believe, Amasia, could you know my Love,
Rock as it is, such Passion needs must move.
Could you but know to what excess I burn,
Soon would you pity him, whom now you scorn.
Whate'er the Female, rigid Pride foretels,
There must be softness, where such Beauty dwells.
O think again, think on the ills I bear,
And do not, do not drive me to despair;
Must all — must all be cruel, who are fair?
Beauty, like light'ning thus it's Pow'r maintains,
And less in Charming than in Terrour Reigns.
O that true Love should with disdain be paid!
O that my Passion should your sport be made!
Late, at your Father's Gates I saw you stand,
And Knock for Entrance with a gentle hand.
The conscious Gates (kind to my Pray'rs) were barr'd,
I saw —
And tho' at distance, fancy'd that I heard.
Long time you stood, tho' then I thought not so,
You enter'd — where I wretched, must not go.
Blessings so great your harsh decree denies,
Yet thou wert follow'd by thy Lover's Eyes.
Not they, ev'n they, could full Admittance gain,
The shutting Gates dash'd back my sight —
My Eyes attempted, like my self, in vain.
Dull, senseless Eyes, which could that object lose!
O Servant, harder than the Doors you close.
Secure, like Danae in your brazen hold,
Not Jove himself can enter, but in Gold.