I've always loved this poem,
Farewell to Love, by Michael Drayton. Not much is known about Drayton's personal life apart from his dates, 1563-1613, his association with writers such as Ben Jonson & William Drummond, & his death in reduced circumstances. He had one powerful friend & patron though because Lady Anne Clifford, Countess of Dorset, paid for his burial & monument in Westmimnster Abbey. The portraits of Drayton I've seen aren't terribly inspiring so I've used Isaac Oliver's miniature of Lord Herbert of Cherbury (from
art.com) instead. I can imagine this young man spurning a lover in just these terms of hurt pride but hoping that she might, at the very last, change her mind.
Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part;
Nay I have done, you get no more of me;
And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,
That thus so cleanly I myself can free;
Shake hands for ever, cancel all my vows,
And when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows
That we one jot of former love retain.
Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath,
When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies,
When faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And innocence is closing up his eyes,
Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over,
From death to life thou might'st him yet recover.
