Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/495



men were fashioned of the stone, Then might they never yield to love— But fashioned as they are, they owne (On earth, as in the realme above,) That Beauty, in perfection, stil Controls the thoughts, impels the wil.

And sure 'twere vaine to stemme the tide Of passion surging in the breast— Since fierce ambition, stubborn pryde Have each the sovereigne power confest; Which rolleth on, despite al staie, Sweeping ilk prudent shifte awaye.

What though the mayden that we love May fail to meet the troth we bear— Nor once its generous warmth approve, Nor bate one jot of our despaire— Doth not the blind dictator say— 'Thou foolish wichte pyne on alwaie!'