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Alexander Brome (Александр Бром)

To a Widow


NAy, dry (for shame) those blubber'd eyes,
And cease to sigh that breath away,
Fates are not mov'd with tears and cryes,
Nor formal sighs as vain as they,
Joyes are not joyes, that alwaies stay,
And constant pleasures don't delight but cloy.


Though he be gone, that was your dear,
Must you for ever mourn and pine
The Sun that's buried the last Year,
Does now in newer glory shine.
Your Nuptial joyes and pleasures be
Not dead, but only inherited by me,


Hymen's an Artist, and can do
The next time better than before,
Giants great heights can reach unto,
But on their shoulders dwarfs reach more.
Men more refin'd do daily grow,
The nearer to Divinity they go.


Then don't (my dear) thy heart confine,
To one whose being's past away,
And make me with desires, to pine,
Whilest he must glut, that can't enjoy.
Love's stifled, when it is confin'd,
To this or that; it's object is mankind.

Alexander Brome's other poems:
  1. The Cavalier
  2. The Hard Heart
  3. The Reformation
  4. The Libertine
  5. The Prodigal

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