A woman may "erect her Throne" in a "sullen Heart"
— Sedley, Sir Charles (1639-1701)
Date
1672?
Metaphor
A woman may "erect her Throne" in a "sullen Heart"
Metaphor in Context
Thirsis no more against my Flame advise,
But let me be in Love, and be you wise:
Here end, and there begin a new Address,
Pursue the vulgar easie Happiness:
Leave me to Amaranta, who alone
Can in my sullen Heart erect her Throne:
I know, as well as you, 'tis mean to burn,
For one who to our Flame makes no return:
But you, like me, feel not those conquering Eyes,
Which mock Prevention by a quick Surprize:
And now like a hurt Deer, in vain I start
From her, that in my Breast has hid the Dart.
Though I can never reach her Excellence,
Take somewhat in my hopeless Love's defence.
Her Beauty is her not esteemed Wealth,
And Graces play about her Eyes by stealth;
Vertue in others, the forc'd Child of Art,
Is but the native Temper of her Heart:
All Charms her Sex so often court in vain,
(Like Indian Fruit, which our cold Earth disdain.)
In her grow wild, as in their native Air,
And she has all Perfection without Care.
Of Lovers Harms she has the tend'rest Sense,
That can consist with so much Innocense.
Like a wise Prince, she rules her Subjects so,
That neither Want, nor Luxury they know.
None vainly hoping what, she may not give,
Like humble Slaves at small Expence we live:
And I the wretched Comfort only share,
To be the Least whom she will bid Dispair.
But let me be in Love, and be you wise:
Here end, and there begin a new Address,
Pursue the vulgar easie Happiness:
Leave me to Amaranta, who alone
Can in my sullen Heart erect her Throne:
I know, as well as you, 'tis mean to burn,
For one who to our Flame makes no return:
But you, like me, feel not those conquering Eyes,
Which mock Prevention by a quick Surprize:
And now like a hurt Deer, in vain I start
From her, that in my Breast has hid the Dart.
Though I can never reach her Excellence,
Take somewhat in my hopeless Love's defence.
Her Beauty is her not esteemed Wealth,
And Graces play about her Eyes by stealth;
Vertue in others, the forc'd Child of Art,
Is but the native Temper of her Heart:
All Charms her Sex so often court in vain,
(Like Indian Fruit, which our cold Earth disdain.)
In her grow wild, as in their native Air,
And she has all Perfection without Care.
Of Lovers Harms she has the tend'rest Sense,
That can consist with so much Innocense.
Like a wise Prince, she rules her Subjects so,
That neither Want, nor Luxury they know.
None vainly hoping what, she may not give,
Like humble Slaves at small Expence we live:
And I the wretched Comfort only share,
To be the Least whom she will bid Dispair.
Categories
Provenance
Searching "throne" and "heart" in HDIS (Poetry)
Date of Entry
08/07/2004
