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Poem by Edmund Waller


The Self Banished


It is not that I love you less
Than when before your feet I lay,
But to prevent the sad increase
Of hopeless love, I keep away.

In vain (alas!) for everything
Which I have known belong to you,
Your form does to my fancy bring,
And makes my old wounds bleed anew.

Who in the spring from the new sun
Already has a fever got,
Too late begins those shafts to shun,
Which Phœbus through his veins has shot.

Too late he would the pain assuage,
And to thick shadows does retire;
About with him he bears the rage,
And in his tainted blood the fire.

But vow'd I have, and never must
Your banish'd servant trouble you;
For if I break, you may distrust
The vow I made to love you, too. 



Edmund Waller


Edmund Waller's other poems:
  1. To One Married to an Old Man
  2. On the Friendship Betwixt Two Ladies
  3. To a Lady Singing a Song of His Composing
  4. To the King
  5. Of My Lady Isabella Playing on the Lute


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