How oft, when press'd to marriage, have I said, Curse on all laws but those which Love has made! Love, free as air, at sight of human ties, Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies. Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame, August her deed, and sacred be her fame; 80 Before true passion all those views remove; Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love? The jealous god, when we profane his fires, Those restless passions in revenge inspires, And bids them make mistaken mortals groan, Who seek in love for aught but love alone. Should at my feet the world's great master fall, Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn them all: Not Cæsar's empress would I deign to prove; No, make me mistress to the man I love; If there be yet another name more free, More fond than mistress, make me that to thee! 90 Oh, happy state! when souls each other draw, When love is liberty, and nature law: All then is full, possessing and possess'd, No craving void left aching in the breast: Even thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part, And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart. This, sure, is bliss (if bliss on earth there be) And once the lot of Abelard and me. Alas, how changed! what sudden horrors rise! A naked lover bound and bleeding lies! 100 Where, where was Eloise? her voice, her hand, Her poniard, had opposed the dire command. Barbarian, stay! that bloody stroke restrain; The crime was common, common be the pain. I can no more; by shame, by rage suppress'd, Let tears and burning blushes speak the rest. Canst thou forget that sad, that solemn day, When victims at yon altar's foot we lay? Canst thou forget what tears that moment fell, When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell? 110 As with cold lips I kiss'd the sacred veil, The shrines all trembled, and the lamps grew pale: Heaven scarce believed the conquest it survey'd, And saints with wonder heard the vows I made. Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew, Not on the cross my eyes were fix'd, but you: Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call, And if I lose thy love, I lose my all. Come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe; Those still at least are left thee to bestow. 120 Still on that breast enamour'd let me lie, Still drink delicious poison from thy eye, Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be press'd; Give all thou canst--and let me dream the rest. Ah, no! instruct me other joys to prize, With other beauties charm my partial eyes, Full in my view set all the bright abode, And make my soul quit Abelard for God.