When, cruel fair one, I am slain By thy disdain, And, as a trophy of thy scorn, To some old tomb am borne, Thy fetters must their pow'r bequeath To those of Death; Nor can thy flame immortal burn Like monumental fires within an urn; Thus freed from thy proud empire, I shall prove There is more liberty in Death than Love. And when forsaken lovers come To see my tomb, Take heed thou mix not with the crowd, And, as a victor, proud To view the spoils thy beauty made, Press near my shade, Lest thy too cruel breath or name Should fan my ashes back into a flame. And thou, devour'd by this revengeful fire, His sacrifice, who died as thine expire. But if cold earth or marble must Conceal my dust, Whilst hid in some dark ruins, I Dumb and forgotten lie, The pride of all thy victory Will sleep with me; And they, who should attest thy glory, Will, or forget, or not believe this story. Then to increase thy triumph, let me rest, Since by thine eye slain, buried in thy breast.
- by Thomas Stanley (1625 - 1678) [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)
Researcher for this text: Ted Perry
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 30
Word count: 187