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Updated: May 15, 2025
As after long and hopeless yearning, And separation's bitter smart, A child, with tears repentant burning, Clings fondly to his mother's heart So to his youthful happy dwelling, To rapture pure and free from stain, All strange and false conceits expelling, Song guides the wanderer back again, In faithful Nature's loving arm, From chilling precepts to grow warm.
O my beloved, if the times be yet for me prolonged, be all consumed with separation's fire. Lo! if thy sight one happy day should bless my longing eyes, There is no other thing on earth that I of Fate require. Think not that other loves avail to solace me for thee; My heart can hold no love but thine, my faith can never tire. Then he walked on till he came to the lodging of his brother's widow.
Here make an end, my verse, Of this thy sad lament, Whose burden shall rehearse Pure love of true intent, Which separation's stress Will never render less." "It was then," says Brantorne, "that it was delightful to see her; for the whiteness of her countenance and of her veil contended together; but finally the artificial white yielded, and the snow-like pallor of her face vanquished the other.
Fear not, my dear, I'll rather die than do thee wrong. Fran. Wou'd she wou'd, quickly, then there's her Honour sav'd, and her Ransom, which is better. Guz. Isa. Guil. Alas! this Separation's worse than Death. Isa. Guil. But should the Grand Seignior behold thy Beauty, thou wou'dst despise thine own dear hony Viscount to be a Sultana. Isa. A Sultana, what's that? Guil.
Ah, woe's me for the lover's pain, unresting, passion-burnt, Him who in parting's bitter cup his lips perforce hath wet! His wit is ravished clean away by separation's woe, Fire in his heart and all consumed his entrails by its fret. Ah, what a dreadful day it was, when to her stead I came And that, which on the door was writ, my eyes confounded met!
Yet even the doubt that thou hast breathed gives me no franchise to forget, And were I willing that thy face should cease to fill my vision, yet 'Tis separation's self that binds us closer though the centuries roll, And forges that eternal chain that binds together soul and soul!
"Here make an end, my verse, Of this thy sad lament, Whose burden shall rehearse Pure love of true intent, Which separation's stress Will never render less." "It was then," says Brantorne, "that it was delightful to see her; for the whiteness of her countenance and of her veil contended together; but finally the artificial white yielded, and the snow-like pallor of her face vanquished the other.
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