THE INCURABLE. I TRY'D if books would cure my love, but found As well might men who in a fever fry, As well might men who mad in darkness lie, I try'd devotion, sermons, frequent prayer, I try'd in wine to drown the mighty care; Like drunkards' eyes, my troubled fancy there I try'd what mirth and gaiety would do, Nay, God forgive me for 't! at last I try'd, 'Gainst this some new desire to stir, And lov'd again, but 't was where I espy'd Some faint resemblances of her. The physick made me worse, with which I strove. As wholesome medicines the disease improve, HONOUR. SHE loves, and she confesses too; What's this, ye Gods! what can it be? Bold Honour stands up in the gate, Have I o'ercome all real foes, And shall this phantom me oppose ? Noisy nothing! stalking shade! But I shall find out counter-charms, Thy airy devilship to remove Sure I shall rid myself of thee THE INNOCENT ILL. THOUGH all thy gestures and discourses be Though from thy tongue ne'er slipp'd away One word which nuns at th' altar might not say; Yet such a sweetness, such a grace, In all thy speech appear, That what to th' eye a beauteous face, So cunningly it wounds the heart, It strikes such heat through every part, That thou a tempter worse than Satan art. Though in thy thoughts scarce any tracks have been So much as of original sin, Such charms thy beauty wears as might Desires in dying confess'd saints excite: Thou, with strange adultery, Dost in each breast a brothel keep; And some enjoy thee when they sleep. Who to such multitudes did give Though in thy breast so quick a pity be, That a fly's death's a wound to thee; Of judge, of torturer, and of weapon too. Thou lovely instrument of angry Fate, Which God did for our faults create! Which, sweet as health, yet like a plague dost kill! Thou chaste committer of a rape! Which no man can, or would, escape! DIALOGUE. She. WHAT have we done? what cruel passion mov'd thee, Thus to ruin her that lov'd thee? Shame succeeds the short-liv'd pleasure; So soon is spent, and gone, this thy ill-gotten treasure! He. We have done no harm; nor was it theft in me, But noblest charity in thee. I'll the well-gotten pleasure Safe in my memory treasure: What though the flower itself do waste, The essence from it drawn does long and sweeter last. She. No: I'm undone; my honour thou hast slain, And nothing can restore 't again. Art and labour to bestow, Upon the carcase of it now, Is but t'embalm a body dead; The figure may remain, the life and beauty's fled. He. Never, my dear, was honour yet undone |