THE INCURABLE.

I TRY'D if books would cure my love, but found
Love made them nonsense all;
I'apply'd receipts of business to my wound,
But stirring did the pain recall.

As well might men who in a fever fry,
Mathematick doubts debate;

As well might men who mad in darkness lie,
Write the dispatches of a state.

I try'd devotion, sermons, frequent prayer,
But those did worse than useless prove;
For prayers are turn'd to sin, in those who are
Out of charity, or in love.

I try'd in wine to drown the mighty care;
But wine, alas! was oil to th' fire:

Like drunkards' eyes, my troubled fancy there
Did double the desire.

I try'd what mirth and gaiety would do,
And mix'd with pleasant companies;
My mirth did graceless and insipid grow,
And 'bove a clinch it could not rise.

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.
This mortal ill t' expel;

As wholesome medicines the disease improve,
There where they work not well.

HONOUR.

SHE loves, and she confesses too;
There's then, at last, no more to do:
The happy work 's entirely done;
Enter the town which thou hast won;
The fruits of conquest now begin;
Iö triumph! Enter in.

What's this, ye Gods! what can it be?
Remains there still an enemy?

Bold Honour stands up in the gate,
And would yet capitulate;

Have I o'ercome all real foes,

And shall this phantom me oppose ?

Noisy nothing! stalking shade!
By what witchcraft wert thou made?
Empty cause of solid harms!

But I shall find out counter-charms,

Thy airy devilship to remove
From this circle here of love.

Sure I shall rid myself of thee
By the night's obscurity,
And obscurer secrecy !
Unlike to every other sprite,
Thou attempt'st not men t' affright,
Nor appear'st but in the light.

THE INNOCENT ILL.

THOUGH all thy gestures and discourses be
Coin'd and stamp'd by modesty;

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,
That thy tongue is to th' ear:

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;
Awake all men do lust for thee,

And some enjoy thee when they sleep.
Ne'er before did woman live,

Who to such multitudes did give
The root and cause of sin, but only Eve.

Though in thy breast so quick a pity be,

That a fly's death's a wound to thee;
Though savage and rock-hearted those
Appear, that weep not ev'n Romance's woes;
Yet ne'er before was tyrant known,
Whose rage was of so large extent;
The ills thou dost are whole thine own;
Thou 'rt principal and instrument:
In all the deaths that come from you,
You do the treble office do

Of judge, of torturer, and of weapon too.

Thou lovely instrument of angry Fate,

Which God did for our faults create!
Thou pleasant, universal ill,

Which, sweet as health, yet like a plague dost kill!
Thou kind, well-natur❜d tyranny!

Thou chaste committer of a rape!
Thou voluntary destiny,

Which no man can, or would, escape!
So gentle, and so glad to spare,
So wondrous good, and wondrous fair,
(We know) ev'n the destroying-angels are.

DIALOGUE.

She. WHAT have we done? what cruel passion

mov'd thee,

Thus to ruin her that lov'd thee?
Me thou 'st robb'd; but what art thou
Thyself the richer now?

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
By Love, but Indiscretion.