"E'er since which time, unhappy Lovers see, / Their Passion ne'er can be from Tempests free / It Ebbs and Flows, unfixt, not long the same, / A rowling Ocean of tumultuous Flame."
— Hopkins, John (b. 1675)
Author
Place of Publication
London
Publisher
Printed by Tho. Warren
Date
1700
Metaphor
"E'er since which time, unhappy Lovers see, / Their Passion ne'er can be from Tempests free / It Ebbs and Flows, unfixt, not long the same, / A rowling Ocean of tumultuous Flame."
Metaphor in Context
Whoe'er he was, he does my fancy move,
Who painted first the little God of Love.
Plainly he saw the senseless Lovers snare,
What solid good they lose, for empty care;
Thence did he Justly windy Wings impart,
And made the God fly with a humane Heart.
By Fortune's waves he knew us wildly tost,
While, by each dash, we may be wreck'd, and lost.
Justly he knew what the old Poets sung,
That from the Seas Love's Beauteous Mother sprung.
E'er since which time, unhappy Lovers see,
Their Passion ne'er can be from Tempests free.
It Ebbs and Flows, unfixt, not long the same,
A rowling Ocean of tumultuous Flame.
He feign'd him blind, with true design, to show
That every Lover, while he Loves, is so.
Justly indeed his Darts were bearded found,
For, what they hurt, can never be made sound;
And 'ere we see him, he is sure to wound.
My Breast his Arrows, and his Image boast,
But sure his Wings, with which he flies, are lost.
My Heart's his Throne, yet Rebel Passions Jar,
Which Fire my Veins, and thro' my Blood make War.
Why Cruel Love, should you the Tyrant Play?
By what pretence can you demand your sway?
But you have Pow'r, and I must still obey.
When I am gone, who shall your praises sing?
And my Light Muse can weighty glories bring.
Who painted first the little God of Love.
Plainly he saw the senseless Lovers snare,
What solid good they lose, for empty care;
Thence did he Justly windy Wings impart,
And made the God fly with a humane Heart.
By Fortune's waves he knew us wildly tost,
While, by each dash, we may be wreck'd, and lost.
Justly he knew what the old Poets sung,
That from the Seas Love's Beauteous Mother sprung.
E'er since which time, unhappy Lovers see,
Their Passion ne'er can be from Tempests free.
It Ebbs and Flows, unfixt, not long the same,
A rowling Ocean of tumultuous Flame.
He feign'd him blind, with true design, to show
That every Lover, while he Loves, is so.
Justly indeed his Darts were bearded found,
For, what they hurt, can never be made sound;
And 'ere we see him, he is sure to wound.
My Breast his Arrows, and his Image boast,
But sure his Wings, with which he flies, are lost.
My Heart's his Throne, yet Rebel Passions Jar,
Which Fire my Veins, and thro' my Blood make War.
Why Cruel Love, should you the Tyrant Play?
By what pretence can you demand your sway?
But you have Pow'r, and I must still obey.
When I am gone, who shall your praises sing?
And my Light Muse can weighty glories bring.
Categories
Provenance
HDIS (Poetry)
Citation
Only 1 entry in ESTC (1700).
Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses. A Collection of Poems. In Three Volumes. By Mr. John Hopkins. (London: Printed by Tho. Warren, 1700). <Link to ESTC><Link to EEBO>
Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses. A Collection of Poems. In Three Volumes. By Mr. John Hopkins. (London: Printed by Tho. Warren, 1700). <Link to ESTC><Link to EEBO>
Date of Entry
06/14/2004
Date of Review
02/09/2012
