I cannot sleep, my soul is now unfurnish...

I cannot sleep, my soul is now unfurnish'd

Of all that sweetness which allow'd it rest.

—'Tis flown, 'tis flown, for ever from my breast.

And in its room eternal discords dwell,

Such as out-do the black intrigues of Hell—

—Oh my fortune—

[weeps

—What's here—Alass, that which I dare not look on,

And yet, why should I shun that image here,

Which I continually about me beare,

But why, dear Picture, art thou still so gay,

Since she is gone, from whom these charms were borrow'd,

Those eyes that gave this speaking life to thine,

Those lovely eyes are clos'd in endless darkness,

There's not a star in all the face of Heaven,

But now out-shines those Suns.

Suns at noon day dispens'd not kindlier influences:

And thou blest mirrour, that hast of't beheld

That face, which nature never made a fairer,

Thou that so oft her beauties back reflected,

And made her know what wondrous power there lay

In every feature of that lovely face.

But she will smile no more! no more! no more!

—Why, who shall hinder her? Death, cruel death,

—'Twas I that murther'd her—

Thou ly'st—thou durst as well be damn'd as touch her,

She was all sacred, and that impious hand

That had prophanely touch'd her,

Had wither'd from the body.

—I lov'd her—I ador'd her, and could I,

Could I approach her with unhallowed thoughts.

—No, no, I durst not.—

But as devoutest Pilgrims do the shrine,

—If I had don't,

The Gods, who take the part of Innocence,

Had been reveng'd—

—Why did not Thunder strike me in the Action?

Why, if the Gods be just, and I had don't,

Did they not suffer earth to swallow me

Quick—quick into her bosom—

—But yet I say again it was not I,

—Let me behold this face,

That durst appear in such a Villany.

[He looks in the Glass.

Aphra Behn, The Forc’d Marriage, or the Jealous Bridegroom, 1671.