But since thou thy power hast lost, Nor canst fire Kindle in that breast, whose frost Doth these flames in mine inspire, Not to thee but her I'll sue, That disdains both me and you. [_Song--Fool, &c._] An extremely pretty measure, not ill-parted with phrase and imagery. The 'Take, oh! take' motive reappears.] _Delay._ Delay! Alas, there cannot be To Love a greater tyranny: Those cruel beauties that have slain Their votaries by their disdain, Or studied torments, sharp and witty, Will be recorded for their pity, And after-ages be misled To think them kind, when this is spread. Of deaths the speediest is despair, Delays the slowest tortures are; 10 Thy cruelty at once destroys, But Expectation starves my joys. Time and Delay may bring me past The power of Love to cure, at last; And shouldst thou wish to ease my pain, Thy pity might be lent in vain; Or if thou hast decreed, that I Must fall beneath thy cruelty, O kill me soon! Thou wilt express More mercy, ev'n in showing less. 20 _Commanded by his Mistress to woo for her._ MARINO. Strange kind of love! that knows no president, A faith so firm as passeth Faith's extent, By a tyrannic beauty long subdu'd, I now must sue for her to whom I su'd, Unhappy Orator! who, though I move For pity, pity cannot hope to prove: Employing thus against myself my breath, And in another's life begging my death. But if such moving powers my accents have, Why first my own redress do I not crave? 10 What hopes that I to pity should incline Another's breast, who can move none in thine? Or how can the griev'd patient look for ease, When the physician suffers the disease? If thy sharp wounds from me expect their cure, 'Tis fit those first be heal'd that I endure. Ungentle fair one! why dost thou dispense Unequally thy sacred influence? Why pining me, offer'st the precious food To one by whom nor priz'd, nor understood; 20 So some clear brook to the full main, to pay Her needless crystal tribute hastes away, Profusely foolish; whilst her niggard tide Starves the poor flowers that grow along her side. Thou who my glories art design'd to own, Come then, and reap the joys that I have sown: Yet in thy pride acknowledge, though thou bear The happy prize away, the palm I wear. Nor the obedience of my flame accuse, That what I sought, myself conspir'd to lose: 30 The hapless state where I am fix'd is such, To love I seem not, 'cause I love too much.