From "Arcadia" (4) - Druckversion

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From "Arcadia" (4) - Zaunk├ÂniG - 24.09.2007

From Arcadia


Transformd in shew, but more transformd in minde,
I cease to striue with double conquest foild:
For (woe is me) my powers all I finde
With outward force, and inward treason spoild.

For from without came to mine eyes the blowe,
Whereto mine inward thoughts did faintly yeeld;
Both these conspird poore Reasons ouerthrowe;
False in my selfe, thus haue I lost the field.

Thus are my eyes still Captiue to one sight:
Thus all my thoughts are slaues to one thought still:
Thus Reason to his seruants yeelds his right;
Thus is my power transformed to your will.
What maruaile then I take a womans hew,
Since what I see, thinke, know is all but you?


IN vaine, mine Eyes, you labour to amende
With flowing teares your fault of hasty sight:
Since to my hart her shape you so did sends;
That her I see, though you did lose your light.

In vaine, my Hart, now you with sight are burnd,
With sighes you seeke to coole your hotte desire:
Since sighes (into mine inward fornace turnd)
For bellowes serue to kindle more the fire.

Reason, in vaine (now you haue lost my hart)
My head you seeke, as to your strongest forte:
Since there mine eyes haue played so false a parte,
That to your strength your foes haue sure resorte.
Then since in vaine I find were all my strife,
To this strange death I vainely yeeld my life.


LEt not old age disgrace my high desire,
O heauenly soule, in humaine shape conteind:
Old wood inflam'de, doth yeeld the brauest fire,
When yonger dooth in smoke his vertue spend.

Ne let white haires, which on my face doo grow,
Seeme to your eyes of a disgracefull hewe:
Since whitenesse doth present the sweetest show,
Which makes all eyes doo honour vnto you.

Old age is wise and full of constant truth;
Old age well stayed from raunging humor liues:
Old age hath knowne what euer was in youth:
Old age orecome, the greater honour giues.
And to old age since you your selfe aspire,
Let not old age disgrace my high desire.


LOued I am, and yet complaine of Loue:
As louing not, accused, in Loue I die.
When pittie most I craue, I cruell proue:
Still seeking Loue, loue found as much I flie.
Burnt in my selfe, I muse at others fire:
What I call wrong, I doo the same, and more:
Bard of my will, I haue beyond desire:
I waile for want, and yet am chokte with store.
This is thy worke, thou God for euer blinde:
Though thousands old, a Boy entitled still.
Thus children doo the silly birds they finde,
With stroking hurt, and too much cramming kill.
Yet thus much Loue, O Loue, I craue of thee:
Let me be lou'd, or els not loued be.