Александр Бром (Alexander Brome)

Текст оригинала на английском языке

Love's without Reason


'TIs not my Ladies face that makes me loue her,
Though beauty there doth rest,
Enough t' inflame the breast
Of one, that never did discover
The glories of a face before;
But I that have seen thousands more
See nought in hers, but what in others are,
Only because I think she's fair, she's fair.


'Tis not her vertues, nor those vast perfections,
That crowd together in her,
Ingage my soul to win her,
For those are only brief Collections,
Of what's in man in folio writ;
Which by their imitative wit
Women like Apes and Children strive to do;
But we that have the substance slight the show.


'Tis not her birth, her friends, nor yet her treasure,
My free-born soul can hold;
For chains are chains though gold;
Nor do I court her for my pleasure,
Nor for that old Moralitie
Do I love her, 'cause she loves me?
For that's no love, but gratitude, and all
Loves that from fortunes rise, with fortunes fall.


If friends, or birth, created love within me,
Then Princes I'll adore,
And only scorn the poor,
If vertue or good parts could win me,
I'll turn Platonick, and ne're vex
My soul with difference of sex,
And he that loves his Lady 'cause she's fair,
Delights his eye, so loves himself, not her.


Reason and Wisdom are to love high treason,
Nor can he truly love,
Whose flame's not far above,
And far beyond his wit or reason,
Then ask no reason for my fires,
For infinite are my desires.
Something there is moves me to love, and I
Do know I love, but know not how, nor why.

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