850138Fnb3 Anne Finch Transcript
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   Reputation,     Love, and     Death,   
(The last all Bones, the first all Breath,
The midd’st, compos’d of restlesse Fire)
From each other, wou’d retire;
Through the World, resolv’d to stray,                                                                        
Every one a severall way,
Excercising, as they went,
Each, such Power, as Fate had lent;
Which, if itt united were,
Wretched Mortals cou’d not bear;                                                                        
But, as parting Friends, do show
To what Place, they mean to goe,
(Correspondence to engage)
Nominate their uttmost stage,
Death, declar’d he wou’d be found                                                                        
Neer the fatal Trumpett’s sound;
Or, where Pestelence’s reign,
And Quacks, the greater Plagues maintain;
Shaking still, his sandy glasse,
And mowing human Flesh like Grasse.                                                            
Love, as next, his leave he took,
Cast on both, so sweet a look,
As their Tempers neer disarm’d,
One relax’d, and t’other warm’d;
Shades, for his retreat he chose,                                                                                    
Rural Plaines, and soft repose,
Where no Dowry ’ere was paid,
Where no Joynture e’re was made,
No ill Tongue the Nymph perplex’d,
Where, no Forms, the Shepheard vext,                                                            
Where, himself, shou’d be the care
Of the fond, and of the Fair;
Where, that was, they soon shou’d know;
Au Revoir! Then, turn’d to goe.                                                                                              
Reputation, made a pause,                                                                                                
Suting her severer Laws;
Second thoughts, and third, She us’d,
Weighing Consequenses,     mus’d;
When, at length, to both she cry’d,
You two, safely may divide,                                                                                                
To th’Antipodes may fall,
And re-ascend th’encompass’d Ball;
Certain still, to meet again,
In the Breasts of tortur’d Men,
Who, by One, too far betray’d,                                                                                    
Call in t’other, to their aid;
Whilst I, tender, Coy, and nice,
Rais’d, and ruin’d in a trice,
Either fix, with those I grace,
Or abandoning the Place                                                                                                            
No return, my Nature beares,
From green Youth, or hoary hairs;
If through guilt, or chance, I sever,
I once parting, part for ever.