72
COWLEY'S POEMS.
She must be angry, sure, if I should be
So bold to ask her to make me,
By being hers, happier than she!
I will not; 't is a milder fate
To fall by her not loving, than her hate.
So bold to ask her to make me,
By being hers, happier than she!
I will not; 't is a milder fate
To fall by her not loving, than her hate.
And yet this death of mine, I fear,
Will ominous to her appear;
When, sound in every other part,
Her sacrifice is found without an heart;
For the last tempest of my death
Shall sigh out that too with my breath.
Then shall the world my noble ruin see,
Some pity and some envy me;
Then she herself, the mighty she,
Shall grace my funerals with this truth;
"'T was only Love destroy'd the gentle youth!"
Will ominous to her appear;
When, sound in every other part,
Her sacrifice is found without an heart;
For the last tempest of my death
Shall sigh out that too with my breath.
Then shall the world my noble ruin see,
Some pity and some envy me;
Then she herself, the mighty she,
Shall grace my funerals with this truth;
"'T was only Love destroy'd the gentle youth!"
THE MONOPOLY.
What mines of sulphur in my breast do lie,
That feed th' eternal burnings of my heart!
Not Ætna flames more fierce or constantly,
The sounding shop of Vulcan's smoky art:
Vulcan his shop has placed there,
And Cupid's forge is set-up here.
That feed th' eternal burnings of my heart!
Not Ætna flames more fierce or constantly,
The sounding shop of Vulcan's smoky art:
Vulcan his shop has placed there,
And Cupid's forge is set-up here.
