Rue
From The Self Banished by Edmund Waller
chosen by Sam
It is not that I love you less
Than when before your Feet I lay:
But to prevent the sad encrease
Of hopeless Love, I keep away.
In vain (alas!) for every thing
Which I have known belong to you
Your Form does to my Fancy bring,
And makes my old Wounds bleed anew.
Who in the Spring form the New Sun,
Already has a Fever got,
Too late begins those Shafts to shun;
Which Phabus through his veins has Shot;
Too late he would the pain asswage,
And to thick Shadows does retire;
About with him he bears the Rage,
And in his tainted Bloud the Fire.
But vow’d I have, and never must
Your banisht Servant trouble you:
For if I break, you may mistrust
The Vow I made to Love you too.
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