FAWNIA
by: Robert Greene
- H! were
she pitiful as she is fair,
- Or but as mild as she is seeming so,
- Then were my hopes greater than my despair,
- Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe.
- Ah! were her heart relenting as her hand,
- That seems to melt even with the mildest touch,
- Then knew I where to seat me in a land
- Under wide heavens, but yet there is not such.
- So as she shows she seems the budding rose,
- Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower;
- Sovran of beauty, like the spray she grows;
- Compass'd she is with thorns and canker'd flower.
- Yet were she willing to be pluck'd and worn,
- She would be gather'd, though she grew on thorn.
-
- Ah! when she sings, all music else be still,
- For none must be comparèd to her note;
- Ne'er breathed such glee from Philomela's bill,
- Nor from the morning-singer's swelling throat.
- Ah! when she riseth from her blissful bed
- She comforts all the world as doth the sun,
- And at her sight the night's foul vapour's fled;
- When she is set the gladsome day is done.
- O glorious sun, imagine me the west,
- Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast!
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POEMS BY ROBERT GREENE |
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