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As well might men who in a fever fry,
Mathematic doubts debate;
Write the dispatches of a state.
But those did worse than useless prove;
prayers are turn'd to sin, in those who are
But wine, alas! was oil to the fire :
Did double the desire.
And mix'd with pleasant companies ;
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 loved again, but 'twas where I espy'd
Some faint resemblances of her.
This mortal ill to' expel ;
There where they work not well.
She loves, and she confesses too ;
The fruits of conquest now begin ;
What's this, ye Gods! what can it be?
Sure I shall rid myself of thee
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 the altar might not say;
Yet such a sweetness, such a grace,
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
Thou, with strange adultery,
And some enjoy thee when they sleep.
Who to such multitudes did give
That a fly's death’s a wound to thee;
Though savage and rock-hearted those Appear, that weep not even Romance's woes ;
Yet ne'er before was tyrant known,
Thou'rt principal and instrument:
Which God did for our faults create !
Thou pleasant, universal ill,
Thou kind, well natured tyranny !
So gentle, and so glad to spare,
So wondrous good, and wondrous fair, (We know) even the destroying-angels are.
Shame succeeds the short-lived pleasure;
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, [last. The essence from it drawn does long and sweeter SHE. No: I’m undone; my honour thou hast slain,
And nothing can restore 't again.
Is but to' embalm a body dead;
By Love, but Indiscretion.
Like tapers shut in ancient urns,
SHE. Thou first, perhaps, who didst the fault
Wilt make thy wicked boast of it; [commit, For men, with Roman pride, above The conquest do the triumph love;
Nor think a perfect victory gain'd, [enchain'd. Unless they through the streets their captive lead HE. Whoe'er his secret joys has open laid,
The bawd to his own wife is made; Beside, what boast is left for me, Whose whole wealth’s a gift from thee? 'Tis you the
conqueror are, 'tis you (me too. Who have not only ta’en, but bound and gagged ShE. Though public punishment we escape, the sin
Will rack and torture us within :
That worm which now the core does waste, When long ’t has gnaw'd within, will break the
skin at last. HE. That thirsty-drink, that hungry-food, I sought,
That wounded-balm, is all my fault;
The cause absolves the crime ; since me
And yet I'm sure I love thee too! I'm angry; but
wrath will prove More innocent than did thy love.
Thou hast this day undone me quite ; Yet wilt undo me more shouldst thou not come
at night. VOL. II.