Ariadne's Complaint, upon a Rock in the Island of Naxos on Being Deserted by Theseus

Theseus! O Theseus, hark! but yet in vain Alas, deserted, I complain! It was some neighbouring rock, more soft than he, Whose hollow bowels pitied me, And, beating back that false and cruel name, Did comfort and revenge my flame. Tell me, ye Gods, whoe'er ye are, Why, O why made ye him so fair? And tell me, wretch, why thou Mad'st not thy self more true? Beauty from him may copies take, And more majestic heroes make, And Falsehood learn a-while, From him, too, to beguile. Restore my clew, 'Tis here most due; For 'tis a labyrinth of more subtle art, To have so fair a face, so foul a heart. The ravenous vulture tear his breast! The rolling stone disturb his rest! Let him next feel Ixion's wheel, And add one fable more To cursing poets store! And then—yet rather let him live, and twine His woof of days with some thread stol'n from mine; But, if you'll torture him, howe'er, Torture my heart, you'll find him there.

Till my eyes drank up his, And his drank mine, I ne'er thought souls might kiss, And spirits join: Pictures till then Took me as much as men, Nature and art Moving alike my heart. But his fair visage made me find Pleasures and fears, Hopes, sighs, and tears, As several seasons of the mind. Should thine eye, Venus, on his dwell, Thou would'st invite him to thy shell, And, caught by that live jet, Venture the second net, And after all thy dangers, faithless he, Should'st thou but slumber, would forsake ev'n thee. The streams so court the yielding banks, And gliding thence ne'er pay their thanks. The winds so woo the flowers, Whispering among fresh bowers, And, having robb'd them of their smells, Fly thence perfum'd to other cells. This is familiar hate, to smile and kill; Though nothing please thee, yet my ruin will. Death, hover, hover o'er me then! Waves, let your crystal womb Be both my fate and tomb! I'll sooner trust the sea, than men. And yet, O nymphs below who sit, In whose swift floods his vows he writ, Snatch a sharp diamond from the richer mines, And in some mirrour grave these sadder lines, Which let some God convey To him, that so he may In that both read at once, and see Those looks that caus'd my destiny. In Thetis' arms I Ariadne sleep, Drown'd first by my own tears, then in the deep; Twice banish'd, first by love, and then by hate, The life that I preserv'd became my fate; Who, leaving all, was by him left alone, That, from a monster freed, himself prov'd one.

That then I—But look! O mine eyes Be now true spies, Yonder, yonder Comes my dear, Now my wonder, Once my fear. See satyrs dance along In a confused throng, While horns and pipes rude noise Do mad their lusty joys. Roses his forehead crown, And that re-crowns the flowers. Where he walks up and down He makes the desarts bowers: The ivy and the grape Hide, not adorn, his shape, And green leaves cloath his waving rod: 'Tis either Theseus, or some God.