A Poem by Andrew Marvell
Clora, come view my Soul, and tell
Whether I have contriv’d it well.
Now all its several lodgings lye
Compos’d into one Gallery;
And the great Arras-hangings, made
Of various Faces, by are laid;
That, for all furniture, you’l find
Only your Picture in my Mind.
Here Thou art painted in the Dress
Of an Inhumane Murtheress;
Examining upon our Hearts
Thy fertile Shop of cruel Arts:
Engines more keen than ever yet
Adorned a Tyrants Cabinet;
Of which the most tormenting are
Black Eyes, red Lips, and curlèd Hair.
But, on the other side, th’art drawn
Like to Aurora in the Dawn;
When in the East she slumb’ring lyes,
And stretches out her milky Thighs;
While all the morning Quire does sing,
And Mamma falls, and Roses spring;
And, at thy Feet, the wooing Doves
Sit perfecting their harmless Loves.
Like an Enchantress here thou show’st,
Vexing thy restless Lover’s Ghost;
And, by a Light obscure, dost rave
Over his Entrails, in the Cave;
Divining thence, with horrid Care,
How long thou shalt continue fair;
And (when inform’d) them throw’st away,
To be the greedy Vultur’s prey.
But, against that, thou sit’st afloat
Like Venus in her pearly Boat.
The Halcyons, calming all that’s nigh,
Betwixt the Air and Water fly.
Or, if some rowling Wave appears,
A Mass of Ambergris it bears.
Nor blows more Wind than what may well
Convoy the Perfume to the Smell.
These Pictures and a thousand more,
Of Thee, my Gallery dost store;
In all the Forms thou can’st invent
Either to please me, or torment:
For thou alone to people me,
Art grown a num’rous Colony;
And a Collection choicer far
Then or White-hall’s, or Mantua’s were.
But, of these Pictures and the rest,
That at the Entrance likes me best:
Where the same Posture, and the Look
Remains, with which I first was took:
A tender Shepherdess, whose Hair
Hangs loosely playing in the Air,
Transplanting Flow’rs from the green Hill,
To crown her Head, and Bosome fill.