famous poetry
| Famous Poetry | Roleplay | Free Video Tutorials | Online Poetry Club | Free Education | Best of Youtube | Ear Training

The Nymph Complaining For The Death Of Her Faun Analysis



Author: Poetry of Andrew Marvell Type: Poetry Views: 188

Sponsored Links





The wanton Troopers riding by

Have shot my Faun and it will dye.

Ungentle men! They cannot thrive

To kill thee. Thou neer didst alive

Them any harm: alas nor cou'd

Thy death yet do them any good.

I'me sure I never wisht them ill;

Nor do I for all this; nor will:

But, if my simple Pray'rs may yet

Prevail with Heaven to forget

Thy murder, I will Joyn my Tears

Rather then fail. But, O my fears!

It cannot dye so. Heavens King

Keeps register of every thing:

And nothing may we use in vain.

Ev'n Beasts must be with justice slain;

Else Men are made their Deodands.

Though they should wash their guilty hands

In this warm life blood, which doth part

From thine, and wound me to the Heart,

Yet could they not be clean: their Stain

Is dy'd in such a Purple Grain.

There is not such another in

The World, to offer for their Sin,

Unconstant Sylvio, when yet

I had not found him counterfeit,

One morning (I remember well)

Ty'd in this silver Chain and Bell,

Gave it to me: nay and I know

What he said then; I'm sure I do.

Said He, look how your Huntsman here

Hath taught a Faun to hunt his Dear.

But Sylvio soon had me beguil'd.

This waxed tame; while he grew wild,

And quite regardless of my Smart,

Left me his Faun, but took his Heart.

Thenceforth I set my self to play

My solitary time away,

With this: and very well content,

Could so mine idle Life have spent.

For it was full of sport; and light

Of foot, and heart; and did invite,

Me to its game: it seem'd to bless

Its self in me. How could I less

Than love it? O I cannot be

Unkind, t' a Beast that loveth me.

Had it liv'd long, I do not know

Whether it too might have done so

As Sylvio did: his Gifts might be

Perhaps as false or more than he.

But I am sure, for ought that I

Could in so short a time espie,

Thy Love was far more better then

The love of false and cruel men.

With sweetest milk, and sugar, first

I it at mine own fingers nurst.

And as it grew, so every day

It wax'd more white and sweet than they.

It had so sweet a Breath! And oft

I blusht to see its foot more soft,

And white, (shall I say then my hand?)

Nay any Ladies of the Land.

It is a wond'rous thing, how fleet

Twas on those little silver feet.

With what a pretty skipping grace,

It oft would callenge me the Race:

And when 'thad left me far away,

'T would stay, and run again, and stay.

For it was nimbler much than Hindes;

And trod, as on the four Winds.

I have a Garden of my own,

But so with Roses over grown,

And Lillies, that you would it guess

To be a little Wilderness.

And all the Spring time of the year

It onely loved to be there.

Among the beds of Lillyes, I

Have sought it oft, where it should lye;

Yet could not, till it self would rise,

Find it, although before mine Eyes.

For, in the flaxen Lillies shade,

It like a bank of Lillies laid.

Upon the Roses it would feed,

Until its lips ev'n seem'd to bleed:

And then to me 'twould boldly trip,

And print those Roses on my Lip.

But all its chief delight was still

On Roses thus its self to fill:

And its pure virgin Limbs to fold

In whitest sheets of Lillies cold.

Had it liv'd long, it would have been

Lillies without, Roses within.

O help! O help! I see it faint:

And dye as calmely as a Saint.

See how it weeps. The Tears do come

Sad, slowly dropping like a Gumme.

So weeps the wounded Balsome: so

The holy Frankincense doth flow.

The brotherless Heliades

Melt in such Amber Tears as these.

I in a golden Vial will

Keep these two crystal Tears; and fill

It till it do o'reflow with mine;

Then place it in Diana's Shrine.

Now my sweet Faun is vanish'd to

Whether the Swans and Turtles go

In fair Elizium to endure,

With milk-white Lambs, and Ermins pure.

O do not run too fast: for I

Will but bespeak thy Grave, and dye.

First my unhappy Statue shall

Be cut in Marble; and withal,

Let it be weeping too: but there

Th' Engraver sure his Art may spare;

For I so truly thee bemoane,

That I shall weep though I be Stone:

Until my Tears, still dropping, wear

My breast, themselves engraving there.

There at my feet shalt thou be laid,

Of purest Alabaster made:

For I would have thine Image be

White as I can, though not as Thee.










Sponsor



Learn to Play Songs by Ear: Ear Training

122 Free Video Tutorials

[Video Tutorial] How to build google chrome extensions

Please add me on youtube. I make free educational video tutorials on youtube such as Basic HTML and CSS.

Free Online Education from Top Universities

Yes! It's true. Online College Education is now free!



||| Analysis | Critique | Overview Below |||

There have been no submitted criqiques, be the first to add one below.


Post your Analysis




Message

Free Online Education from Top Universities

Yes! It's true. College Education is now free!







Most common keywords

The Nymph Complaining For The Death Of Her Faun Analysis Andrew Marvell critical analysis of poem, review school overview. Analysis of the poem. literary terms. Definition terms. Why did he use? short summary describing. The Nymph Complaining For The Death Of Her Faun Analysis Andrew Marvell Characters archetypes. Sparknotes bookrags the meaning summary overview critique of explanation pinkmonkey. Quick fast explanatory summary. pinkmonkey free cliffnotes cliffnotes ebook pdf doc file essay summary literary terms analysis professional definition summary synopsis sinopsis interpretation critique The Nymph Complaining For The Death Of Her Faun Analysis Andrew Marvell itunes audio book mp4 mp3 mit ocw Online Education homework forum help



Poetry 131
Poetry 99
Poetry 154
Poetry 28
Poetry 58
Poetry 7
Poetry 160
Poetry 94
Poetry 132
Poetry 175
Poetry 59
Poetry 126
Poetry 152
Poetry 207
Poetry 39
Poetry 116
Poetry 28
Poetry 42
Poetry 176
Poetry 167