A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/To a Certain Marchioness (Pierre Corneille)
TO A CERTAIN MARCHIONESS
Sweet Marchioness,—if on my face
Some wrinkles stamped by time appear,
Remember, he shall also trace
His marks on thine, ere long, and fear.
Ah me! what malice years oppose
To lovely things; they deck thee now,
But they shall wither all thy rose
As surely as they graved my brow!
The same smooth course the planets roll
That regulate my days and thine,
They saw me young in look and soul,
And they shall see thee, too, decline.
But yet a difference I claim!
I know the spells that conquer Time,
And these may onward bear a name
From age to age, and clime to clime.
Thou hast the beauty men adore,
But beauty is a fleeting dower,
Its reign of triumph soon is o'er,—
Not so this scorned but magic power.
Mild are those eyes; I love their light.
Is there no means to make them beam
A thousand years, as soft and bright?
There is, or else I fondly dream.
Some credit a new race must give
To praises flowing from my pen,
As I shall paint thee, thou shalt live
For ages in the eyes of men!
Think hereupon, fair Marchioness,
And though old age may scare the gay,
Deem not kind words that cheer and bless
Upon me wholly thrown away.