Şiir 11
No coaxing now, your hardest phrases use,
Your looks, your language, all their terrors lose;
I am not such a fool as I have been,
To dread your spirit, and to sooth your spleen.
But, ah! by diff'rent passions I'm oppress'd,
65
Fierce love and hate contend within my breast;
My soul they thus divide, but love, I fear,
Will prove too strong, and get the mast'ry there;
I'll strive to hate her, but if that should prove
A fruitless strife, in spite of me I'll love.
70
The bull does not affect the yoke, but still
He bears the thing he hates against his will
I hate, I fly the faithless fair in vain,
Her beauty ever brings me back again;
She always in my heart will have a place,
75
I hate her humour, but I love her face;
No rest I to my tortur'd soul can give,
Nor with her nor without her can I live.
Oh ! that thy mind we in thy face did view,
Less lovely that thou wert, or else more true.
80
