"Our charmed Eyes, O had you never cloy'd, / Our Palate tickled, or we still enjoy'd / That pleasant prospect, this Soul-raping Guest, / That Royal fare, we had been always Blest."
— Livingstone, Michael (fl. 1680)
Place of Publication
Edinburgh
Publisher
Printed by The Heir of Andrew Anderson [etc.]
Date
1680
Metaphor
"Our charmed Eyes, O had you never cloy'd, / Our Palate tickled, or we still enjoy'd / That pleasant prospect, this Soul-raping Guest, / That Royal fare, we had been always Blest."
Metaphor in Context
As if, when first an hopeful Youth the stage
Had entred, and shown Wit more ripe than Age,
The Courtain fell, the Scene became his Urne,
The plotting Prologue to th' Epilogue turn;
Sure it would move th' amaz'd Spectatours more,
Then his aspiring Sp'rit made glad before:
Ev'n so, Most Royal Sir, you first let's taste
Your Lips delicious Fruit, unlocks the Breast
Where we Contemplate BRITAIN'S Paradise,
Elysium's rare Abstract; then in a trice
Excluded from this Eden, all Afloat
We're left, reflecting on the curious plot:
What have we done? Omitted to effect?
Did any Rules our Tasting e're direct?
Or Caveats starve? No, here the Serpent lurks,
We could not Feed, unless wee'd swell'd like Turks.
Our charmed Eyes, O had you never cloy'd,
Our Palate tickled, or we still enjoy'd
That pleasant prospect, this Soul-raping Guest,
That Royal fare, we had been always Blest.
But since you Vaile anon that splendid Face,
The Diapason of Majestick Grace,
Whose Symmetry had once the Cynick seen,
It Tub and Sun, and Aliment had been;
You ev'n retract our Joy begun, and so
Your Advent frames the Epoch of our woe;
Here I could in the Adamant infuse
A Melancholick Fit, the Flow'r de Luce
Force in a stone to weep, in this Comprise
All former woe, make Nature sympathise
With her condoling Quire, but that my Grief
Exceeds all these as far, as they belief.
Had entred, and shown Wit more ripe than Age,
The Courtain fell, the Scene became his Urne,
The plotting Prologue to th' Epilogue turn;
Sure it would move th' amaz'd Spectatours more,
Then his aspiring Sp'rit made glad before:
Ev'n so, Most Royal Sir, you first let's taste
Your Lips delicious Fruit, unlocks the Breast
Where we Contemplate BRITAIN'S Paradise,
Elysium's rare Abstract; then in a trice
Excluded from this Eden, all Afloat
We're left, reflecting on the curious plot:
What have we done? Omitted to effect?
Did any Rules our Tasting e're direct?
Or Caveats starve? No, here the Serpent lurks,
We could not Feed, unless wee'd swell'd like Turks.
Our charmed Eyes, O had you never cloy'd,
Our Palate tickled, or we still enjoy'd
That pleasant prospect, this Soul-raping Guest,
That Royal fare, we had been always Blest.
But since you Vaile anon that splendid Face,
The Diapason of Majestick Grace,
Whose Symmetry had once the Cynick seen,
It Tub and Sun, and Aliment had been;
You ev'n retract our Joy begun, and so
Your Advent frames the Epoch of our woe;
Here I could in the Adamant infuse
A Melancholick Fit, the Flow'r de Luce
Force in a stone to weep, in this Comprise
All former woe, make Nature sympathise
With her condoling Quire, but that my Grief
Exceeds all these as far, as they belief.
Categories
Provenance
Searching "soul" and "guest" in HDIS (Poetry)
Date of Entry
03/13/2006
