Despoil'd
A love deni'd will burst like rotten fruit;
Love cannot be deferred like a dream.
Heart's pulp that hath been pierced at its seam,
Its membranes ripped, its seeds releas'd, doth shoot;
Its pungent and unwanted juices spurt,
Sweet if enjoyed when offered, but gall
If from neglected branch it break and fall,
All purpose wasted on unyielding dirt.
Me to this ground on my knees dost consign,
For I was made for love, it is my way...
Us'd well or ill? But he who's lov'd can tell.
My softness makest thou a thing malign,
With thy derision speedest its decay,
To seep through dirt till it attaineth hell.
Devalu'd
Then go from me, since thou wilt have it so,
Without conceit that I'll be strong for thee,
Nor will I any other sympathy
Than thy rough hand's striking this hardest blow.
I care for nothing that this world can show
When him I love to love preventeth me.
What's cheapest? That which won't be had for free
While freely giv'n, pleading soft and low.
The more it pleadeth, the more 'tis disdain'd;
The more it nurtureth, the less 'tis worth;
The more it humbleth self, 'tis prouder seen...
Most golden hopes leave the least to be gain'd.
There's nothing that I care for on this earth,
But such care rend'reth me the more obscene.
Devocation
So if I cannot help destroy myself,
And any pang of love I'd send to thee
Earneth but one more blow, the thing were well
Done quickly. I embrace my destiny...
It seemeth thus...learn Beauty's worthlessness,
And Pleasure's curse, and how Sweetness is weak,
Too feeble to contend with Scorn's prowess;
There's no more use of this to further speak.
And what use is my love to me, if each
One I have lov'd the best set it at naught?
Why give myself what none else doth require?
No further need for love, nor touch, nor speech...
I am but a temptation to be fought,
Die, an obliging demon of desire.
Rosamunde del Shore A.S. XXXII