To His Coy Love

Listen to:

To His Coy Love (1:29)

by Michael Drayton 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

I pray thee, leave, love me no more,

  Call home the heart you gave me!

I but in vain that saint adore

  That can but will not save me.

These poor half-kisses kill me quite—

  Was ever man thus servèd?

Amidst an ocean of delight

  For pleasure to be starvèd?

Show me no more those snowy breasts

  With azure riverets branchèd,

Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts,

  Yet is my thirst not stanchèd;

O Tantalus, thy pains ne'er tell!

  By me thou art prevented:

'Tis nothing to be plagued in Hell,

  But thus in Heaven tormented.

Clip me no more in those dear arms,

  Nor thy life's comfort call me,

O these are but too powerful charms,

  And do but more enthral me!

But see how patient I am grown

  In all this coil about thee:

Come, nice thing, let my heart alone,

  I cannot live without thee!

Aware

Listen to:

Aware (:41)

by David Herbert Lawrence 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Slowly the moon is rising out of the ruddy haze,
Divesting herself of her golden shift, and so
Emerging white and exquisite; and I in amaze
See in the sky before me, a woman I did not know
I loved, but there she goes and her beauty hurts my heart;
I follow her down the night, begging her not to depart.

  

The Flea

Listen to:

The Flea (1:48)

by John Donne

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Mark but this flea, and mark    in this,

How little that which thou deniest me is ;

It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee, 

And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.

Thou know'st that this cannot be said

A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead ;

    Yet this enjoys before it woo,

    And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two ;

    And this, alas ! is more than we would do.

O stay, three lives in one flea spare,

Where we almost, yea, more than married are.

This flea is you and I, and this

Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is.

Though parents grudge, and you, we're met,

And cloister'd in these living walls of jet.

    Though use make you apt to kill me,

    Let not to that self-murder added be,

    And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since

Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?

Wherein could this flea guilty be,

Except in that drop which it suck'd from thee?

Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou

Find'st not thyself nor me the weaker now.

'Tis true ; then learn how false fears be ;

Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me,

Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

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