Le Miasme d'Amour
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If when Don Cupid's dart
Doth wound a heart,
We hide our grief
And shun relief;
The smart increaseth on that score;
For wounds unsearched but rankle more.
Then if we whine, look pale,
And tell our tale,
Men are in pain
For us again;
So neither speaking doth become
The lover's state, nor being dumb.
When this I do descry,
Then thus think I:
Love is the fart
Of every heart;
It pains a man when 'tis kept close,
And others doth offend when 'tis let lose.
- Sir John Suckling
Upon my troth, 'twas the dog!
Love is the fart
Of every heart;
to think of the immortal line in the otherwise forgettable Dudley Moore film "10"
Whenever Mrs Kissel breaks wind, we beat the dog.
Bronze, in the green, inverted night,
Forth to his lust, so one supposes;
Eros, turned an hermaphrodite,
Shivers beneath his phallic roses.
But lightly past Ionian seas,
Blown in an iridescent hour,
Phaedras meets Alcibiades -
Two faces, each a poisoned flower.
by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Lift up thy lips, turn round, look back for love,
Blind love that comes by night and casts out rest;
Of all things tired thy lips look weariest,
Save the long smile that they are wearied of.
Ah sweet, albeit no love be sweet enough,
Choose of two loves and cleave unto the best;
Two loves at either blossom of thy breast
Strive until one be under and one above.
Their breath is fire upon the amorous air,
Fire in thine eyes and where thy lips suspire:
And whosoever hath seen thee, being so fair,
Two things turn all his life and blood to fire;
A strong desire begot on great despair,
A great despair cast out by strong desire.
Where between sleep and life some brief space is,
With love like gold bound round about the head,
Sex to sweet sex with lips and limbs is wed,
Turning the fruitful feud of hers and his
To the waste wedlock of a sterile kiss;
Yet from them something like as fire is shed
That shall not be assuaged till death be dead,
Though neither life nor sleep can find out this.
Love made himself of flesh that perisheth
A pleasure-house for all the loves his kin;
But on the one side sat a man like death,
And on the other a woman sat like sin.
So with veiled eyes and sobs between his breath
Love turned himself and would not enter in.
Love, is it love or sleep or shadow or light
That lies between thine eyelids and thine eyes?
Like a flower laid upon a flower it lies,
Or like the night's dew laid upon the night.
Love stands upon thy left hand and thy right,
Yet by no sunset and by no moonrise
Shall make thee man and ease a woman's sighs,
Or make thee woman for a man's delight.
To what strange end hath some strange god made fair
The double blossom of two fruitless flowers?
Hid love in all the folds of all thy hair,
Fed thee on summers, watered thee with showers,
Given all the gold that all the seasons wear
To thee that art a thing of barren hours?
Yea, love, I see; it is not love but fear.
Nay, sweet, it is not fear but love, I know;
Or wherefore should thy body's blossom blow
So sweetly, or thine eyelids leave so clear
Thy gracious eyes that never made a tear--
Though for their love our tears like blood should flow,
Though love and life and death should come and go,
So dreadful, so desirable, so dear?
Yea, sweet, I know; I saw in what swift wise
Beneath the woman's and the water's kiss
Thy moist limbs melted into Salmacis,
And the large light turned tender in thine eyes,
And all thy boy's breath softened into sighs;
But Love being blind, how should he know of this?
The Sick Rose
O Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
ON A MARRIAGE
I hear laughter and there is a feasting, and another marriage
A conspiracy has been formed to accouch another being.
Thou child unborn that now resteth in eternal day,day that
is neither light nor dark;
Child that art yet uncreate and unwhipped of Pain,
In laughter and in feasting they have conspired against thy
There in the Unconscious,
There where thou art lapped and laved in non-being.
Hast thou heard the rumors from the lust-plane,
The guilty murmurings from the priest that made two beings
incorporate? Dost thou know thou art doomed to be born, to bear the
cross and have the nails of pain cleave thy temples?
O thou sweet dweller in the White Temple,
Baby! Baby! as yet a lustful dream in two humanhearts!
Already thy white robes are stained by a tiny red mark—
Thou art doomed to enter the lazarhouse.
Baby! Baby! I hear thee in the night weeping and wailing
'gainst thy birth:
For another marriage is made.
There was a young mate of a luggar,
Who took out a girl just to hug her.
"I've my monthlies," she said,
"And a cold in the head,
But my bowels work well...do you buggar?"
Lover, lover, laughing by,
If life seem brief and earth seem fair,
For you is not the darkling sky
And lonely constellations there:
Lest you should gaze upon a star
And think how pale dead women are.
But when at last your heart is bled
Of hope and drained at last of song,
You will find comfort overhead
Though earth be drear and life be long:
For you will gaze upon a star
And think how peaceful dead men are.
Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel.
For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan.
To say they err I dare not be so bold,
Although I swear it to myself alone.
And, to be sure that is not false I swear,
A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,
One on another's neck, do witness bear
Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place.
In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,
And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.
My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve,
Desire his death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest.
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,
At random from the truth vainly expressed,
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee
Who art as black as Hell, as dark as night.
"Baby! Baby! I hear thee in the night weeping and wailing
'gainst thy birth:
For another marriage is made."
I hear this in the voice of Diana Ross, to the tune of Where Did Our Love Go?
"Oh baby, baby, baby! Who needs a record player?
You are my record player."
Now, that's true love!
Love-sick I am, and must endure
A desp'rate grief that finds no cure,
Ah me! I try, and trying, prove
No herbs have power to cure Love.
Only one sovereign salve I know,
And that is Death, the end of woe.
Reportedly Douglas's last words were "Get these fucking nuns away from me!"
Douglas's book of limericks is quite entertaining. No indecent library should be without a copy.
but as for me, helas! I may no more.
The vain travail hath wearied me so sore
I am of them that farthest cometh behind.
Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
draw from the Deer, but as she fleeth afore
fainting I follow; I leave off therefore,
sithence in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Who list her hunt I put him out of doubt
as well as I may spend his time in vain.
And graven with diamonds in letters plain
there is written her fair neck round about:
'Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am,
And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.'
Sir Thomas Wyatt
by Andrew Marvell
Daphnis must from Chloe part:
Now is come the dismal Hour
That must all his Hopes devour,
All his Labour, all his Art.
Nature, her own Sexes foe,
Long had taught her to be coy:
But she neither knew t' enjoy,
Nor yet let her Lover go.
But, with this sad News surpriz'd,
Soon she let that Niceness fall;
And would gladly yield to all,
So it had his stay compriz'd.
Nature so her self does use
To lay by her wonted State,
Left the World should separate;
Sudden Parting closer glews.
He, well read in all the wayes
By which men their Siege maintain,
Knew not that the Fort to gain
Better 'twas the siege to raise.
But he came so full possest
With the Grief of Parting thence,
That he had not so much Sence
As to see he might be blest.
Till Love in her Language breath'd
Words she never spake before;
But than Legacies no more
To a dying Man bequeath'd.
For, Alas, the time was spent,
Now the latest minut's run
When poor Daphnis is undone,
Between Joy and Sorrow rent.
At that Why, that Stay my Dear,
His disorder'd Locks he tare;
And with rouling Eyes did glare,
And his cruel Fate forswear.
As the Soul of one scarce dead,
With the shrieks of Friends aghast,
Looks distracted back in hast,
And then streight again is fled.
So did wretched Daphnis look,
Frighting her he loved most.
At the last, this Lovers Ghost
Thus his Leave resolved took.
Are my Hell and Heaven Joyn'd
More to torture him that dies?
Could departure not suffice,
But that you must then grow kind?
Ah my Chloe how have I
Such a wretched minute found,
When thy Favours should me wound
More than all thy Cruelty?
So to the condemned Wight
The delicious Cup we fill;
And allow him all he will,
For his last and short Delight.
But I will not now begin
Such a Debt unto my Foe;
Nor to my Departure owe
What my Presence could not win.
Absence is too much alone:
Better 'tis to go in peace,
Than my Losses to increase
By a late Fruition.
Why should I enrich my Fate?
'Tis a Vanity to wear,
For my Executioner,
Jewels of so high a rate.
Rather I away will pine
In a manly stubborness
Than be fatted up express
For the Canibal to dine.
Whilst this grief does thee disarm,
All th' Enjoyment of our Love
But the ravishment would prove
Of a Body dead while warm.
And I parting should appear
Like the Gourmand Hebrew dead,
While with Quailes and Manna fed,
He does through the Desert err;
Or the Witch that midnight wakes
For the Fern, whose magick Weed
In one minute casts the Seed,
And invisible him makes.
Gentler times for Love are ment:
Who for parting pleasure strain
Gather Roses in the rain,
Wet themselves and spoil their Sent.
Farewel therefore all the fruit
Which I could from Love receive:
Joy will not with Sorrow weave,
Nor will I this Grief pollute.
Fate I come, as dark, as sad,
As thy Malice could desire;
Yet bring with me all the Fire
That Love in his Torches had.
At these words away he broke;
As who long has praying ly'n,
To his Heads-man makes the Sign,
And receives the parting stroke.
But hence Virgins all beware.
Last night he with Phlogis slept;
This night for Dorinda kept;
And but rid to take the Air.
Yet he does himself excuse;
Nor indeed without a Cause.
For, according to the Lawes,
Why did Chloe once refuse?
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