That kiss, which last thou gav'st me, stole My fainting life away, Yet, though to thy breast fled, my soul Still in mine own doth stay;
And with the same warm breath did mine Into thy bosom slide; There dwell contracted unto thine, Yet still with me reside.
Both souls thus in desire are one, And each is two in skill; 10 Doubled in intellect alone, United in the will. Weak Nature no such power doth know: Love only can these wonders show.
[_The Exchange._] _1647_ 'Exchange of Souls'. In editions other than _1651_ there is a refrain after each stanza-speech:
Weak Nature no such power doth know, Love only can these wonders show. ]
Sickness, in vain thou dost invade A Beauty that can never fade! Could all thy malice but impair One of the sweets which crown this fair, Or steal the spirits from her eye, Or kiss into a paler dye The blushing roses of her cheek, Our drooping hopes might justly seek Redress from thee, and thou might'st save Thousands of lovers from the grave: 10 But such assaults are vain, for she Is too divine to stoop to thee; Blest with a form as much too high For any change, as Destiny, Which no attempt can violate; For what's her Beauty, is our Fate.
[_Unaltered by Sickness._] Lines 1 and 2 are expanded in _1656_ to:
Pale, envious Sickness, hence! no more Possess our breast, too cold before. In vain, alas! thou dost invade Those beauties which can never fade. ]
[Line: 4 'On those sweets which crown the fair' _1656_.]
[Line: 8 drooping] dropping _1647_: suffering _1656_.]
[Line: 14 For any] _1656_ _But_ any--nonsensically.]
Love the ripe harvest of my toils Began to cherish with his smiles, Preparing me to be indued With all the joys I long pursued, When my fresh hopes, fair and full blown, Death blasts, ere I could call my own.
Malicious Death! why with rude force Dost thou my Fair from me divorce? False Life! why in this loathéd chain Me from my Fair dost thou detain? 10 In whom assistance shall I find? Alike are Life and Death unkind.
Pardon me, Love; thy power outshines, And laughs at their infirm designs. She is not wedded to a tomb, Nor I to sorrow in her room. They, what thou join'st, can ne'er divide She lives in me, in her I died.
Draw near, You Lovers that complain Of Fortune or Disdain, And to my ashes lend a tear; Melt the hard marble with your groans, And soften the relentless stones, Whose cold embraces the sad subject hide, Of all Love's cruelties, and Beauty's pride!