I’AVE often wish’d to love; what shall I do?
Me still the cruel boy does spare;
And I a double task must bear,
First to woo him, and then a mistress too.
Come at last and strike, for shame,
If thou art any thing besides a name;
I’ll think thee else no God to be,
But poets rather Gods, who first created thee.
I ask not one in whom all beauties grow;
Let me but love, whate’er she be,
She cannot seem deform’d to me;
And I would have her seem to others so.
Desire takes wings and straight does fly,
It stays not dully to inquire the Why.
That happy thing, a lover, grown,
I shall not see with others’ eyes, scarce with mine own.
If she be coy, and scorn my noble fire;
If her chill heart I cannot move;
Why I’ll enjoy the very love,
And make a mistress of my own desire.
Flames their most vigorous heat do hold,
And purest light, if compass’d round with cold:
So, when sharp winter means most harm,
The springing plants are by the snow itself kept warm.
But do not touch my heart, and so be gone;
Strike deep thy burning arrows in!
Lukewarmness I account a sin,
As great in love as in religion.
Come arm’d with flames; for I would prove
All the extremities of mighty Love.
Th’ excess of heat is but a fable;
We know the torrid zone is now found habitable.
Among the woods and forests thou art found,
There boars and lions thou dost tame;
Is not my heart a nobler game?
Let Venus, men; and beasts, Diana, wound!
Thou dost the birds thy subjects make;
Thy nimble feathers do their wings o’ertake:
Thou all the spring their songs dost hear;
Make me love too, I’ll sing to’ thee all the year!
What service can mute fishes do to thee?
Yet against them thy dart prevails,
Piercing the armour of their scales;
And still thy sea-born mother lives i’th’ sea.
Dost thou deny only to me
The no-great privilege of captivity?
I beg or challenge here thy bow;
Either thy pity to me, or else thine anger, show.
Come! or I ‘ll teach the world to scorn that bow:
I’ll teach them thousand wholesome arts
Both to resist and cure thy darts,
More than thy skilful Ovid e’er did know.
Musick of sighs thou shalt not hear,
Nor drink one wretched lover’s tasteful tear:
Nay, unless soon thou woundest me,
My verses shall not only wound, but murder, thee.
A few random poems:
- How to Locate, Hire, and Work With an Article Writer
- Out of Town poem – Amy Levy poems | Poems and Poetry
- Love Has Nothing to Do with the Five Senses by Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi
- The Flowers poem – Aldous Huxley poems | Poetry Monster
- Владимир Маяковский – Шестой
- For What She Had Done by Shel Silverstein
- Imitated From The Japanese by William Butler Yeats
- An Antheme by William Strode
- The Redbreast Chasing The Butterfly by William Wordsworth
- Waiting by Rohith
- In Westminster Abbey poem – John Betjeman poems | Poems and Poetry
- English Poetry. Philip James Bailey. Festus – 34. Филип Джеймс Бэйли.
- A Dialogue Of Self And Soul by William Butler Yeats
- The Little Big Man by Rabindranath Tagore
- Power poem – Aleister Crowley poems | Poetry Monster
External links
Bat’s Poetry Page – more poetry by Fledermaus
Talking Writing Monster’s Page –
Batty Writing – the bat’s idle chatter, thoughts, ideas and observations, all original, all fresh
Poems in English
- Arrival by William Carlos Williams
- April Is The Saddest Month by William Carlos Williams
- Après le Bain by William Carlos Williams
- Approach Of Winter by William Carlos Williams
- A Sort Of A Song by William Carlos Williams
- A Goodnight by William Carlos Williams
- A Celebration by William Carlos Williams
- Women And Roses by Robert Browning
- Venus, on a fur by Witty Fay
- Ultima Thule by William Ellery Leonard
- To the Victor by William Ellery Leonard
- The Image Of Delight by William Ellery Leonard
- The First Part: Sonnet 5 – How that vast heaven intitled First is roll’d, by William Drummond
- The First Part: Sonnet 4 – Fair is my yoke, though grievous be my pains, by William Drummond
- The First Part: Sonnet 3 – Ye who so curiously do paint your thoughts, by William Drummond
- The First Part: Sonnet 2 – I know that all beneath the moon decays by William Drummond
- The First Part: Sonnet 14 – Nor Arne, nor Mincius, nor stately Tiber, by William Drummond
- The First Part: Sonnet 13 – O sacred blush, impurpling cheeks’ pure skies by William Drummond
- The First Part: Sonnet 12 – Ah! burning thoughts, now let me take some rest, by William Drummond
- The First Part: Sonnet 11 – Lamp of heaven’s crystal hall that brings the hours, by William Drummond
More external links (open in a new tab):
Doska or the Board – write anything
Search engines:
Yandex – the best search engine for searches in Russian (and the best overall image search engine, in any language, anywhere)
Qwant – the best search engine for searches in French, German as well as Romance and Germanic languages.
Ecosia – a search engine that supposedly… plants trees
Duckduckgo – the real alternative and a search engine that actually works. Without much censorship or partisan politics.
Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.
Parallel Translations of Poetry
The Poetry Repository – an online library of poems, poetry, verse and poetic works

Abraham Cowley (1618 – 1667), the Royalist Poet.Poet and essayist Abraham Cowley was born in London, England, in 1618. He displayed early talent as a poet, publishing his first collection of poetry, Poetical Blossoms (1633), at the age of 15. Cowley studied at Cambridge University but was stripped of his Cambridge fellowship during the English Civil War and expelled for refusing to sign the Solemn League and Covenant of 1644. In turn, he accompanied Queen Henrietta Maria to France, where he spent 12 years in exile, serving as her secretary. During this time, Cowley completed The Mistress (1647). Arguably his most famous work, the collection exemplifies Cowley’s metaphysical style of love poetry. After the Restoration, Cowley returned to England, where he was reinstated as a Cambridge fellow and earned his MD before finally retiring to the English countryside. He is buried at Westminster Abbey alongside Geoffrey Chaucer and Edmund Spenser. Cowley is a wonderful poet and an outstanding representative of the English baroque.