Ïðî÷èòàíèé :  132
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The Anatomye of a Lover
To make a Lover knowne, by plaine Anatomie,
You lovers all that list beware, loe here behold you me.
Who though mine onely lookes, your pittie wel might move,
Yet every part shall playe his part, to paint the panges of love.
If first my feeble head, have so much matter left,
If fansies raging force have not, his feeble skill bereft.
These lockes that hang unkempt, these hollowe dazled eyes,
These chattering teeth, this trebling tongue, well sewed with carefull cries.
These wan and wrinkled cheekes, wel washt with waves of woe,
Maye stand for patterne of a ghost, where so this carkasse goe.
These shoulders they sustaine, the yoake of heavy care,
And on my brused broken backe, the burden must I beare.
These armes quite braunfalne are, with beating on my brest,
This right hand weary is to write, this left hand craveth rest:
These sides enclose the forge, where sorrowe playes the smith,
And hote desire, hath kindled fire, to worke this mettall with.
The Anvile is my heart, my thoughtes they strike the stroake,
My lights and lunges like bellowes blow, & sighes ascend for smoake.
My secreete partes are so with secreete sorrowe soken,
As for the secreete shame thereof, deserves not to be spoken,
My thighes, my knees, my legges, and last of all my feete,
To serve a lovers turne, are so unable and unmeete,
That scarce they sustaine up, this restlesse body well,
Unlesse it be to see the boure, wherein my love doth dwell,
And there by sight eftsoone, to feede my gazing eye,
And so content my hungrie corps, tyll dollours doe me dye:
Yet for a just reward of love so dearely bought,
I pray you saye, loe this was he, whome love had worne to nought.
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