The Repulse to Alcander
What is't you mean, that I am thus approach'd,
Dare you to hope, that I may be debauch'd?
For your seducing Words the same implies,
In begging Pity with a soft Surprise,
For one who loves, and sighs, and almost dies.
In ev'ry Word and Action doth appear,
Something I hate and blush to see or hear;
At first your Love for vast Respect was told,
Till your excess of Manners grew too bold,
And did your base, designing Thoughts unfold.
When a Salute did seem to Custom due,
With too much Ardour you'd my Lips pursue;
My Hand, with which you play'd, you'd Kiss and Press,
Nay, ev'ry Look had something of Address.
Ye Gods! I cry'd, sure he designs to woo,
For thus did amorous Phylaster do.
The Youth whose Passion none could disapprove,
When Hymen waited to complete his Love;
But now, when sacred Laws and Vows confine
Me to another, what can you design?
At first, I could not see the lewd Abuse,
But fram'd a thousand Things for your Excuse.
I knew that Bacchus sometimes did inspire
A sudden Transport, tho' not lasting Fire;
For he no less than Cupid can make kind,
And force a Fondness which was ne'er design'd;
Or thought you'd travel'd far, and it might chance,
To be the foreign Mode of Complaisance.
Till you so oft your amorous Crimes repeat,
That to permit you would make mine as great;
Nor stopt you here but languishingly spake,
That Love which I endeavour'd to mistake:
What saw you in me, that could make you vain,
Or any thing expect, but just Disdain?
I must confess I am not quite so Nice,
To Damn all little Gallantries for Vice
(But I see now my Charity's misplac'd,
If none but sullen Saints can be thought Chaste):
Yet know, Base Man, I scorn your lewd Amours,
Hate them from all, not only 'cause they're yours.
Oh sacred Love! let not the World profane
Thy Transports, thus to Sport, and Entertain;
The Beau, with some small Artifice of's own,
Can make a Treat, for all the wanton Town:
I thought my self secure, within these Shades,
But your rude Love, my privacy invades,
Affronts my Virtue, hazards my just Fame,
Why should I suffer, for your lawless Flame?
For oft 'tis known, through Vanity and Pride,
Men boast those Favours which they are deny'd;
Or other's Malice, which can soon discern;
Perhaps may see in you some kind Concern.
So scatter false Suggestions of their own,
That I love too: Oh! Stain to my Renown;
No, I'll be Wise, avoid your Sight in time,
And shun at once the Censure and the Crime.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (The Repulse to Alcander by Sarah Fyge )
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
A Dream Within A Dream
Edgar Allan Poe
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)