Page:The Works of Abraham Cowley - volume 2 (ed. Aikin) (1806).djvu/104

In things where fancy much does reign,
’Tis dangerous too cunningly to feign;
The play at last a truth does grow,
And Custom into Nature go;
By this curst art of begging I became
Lame with counterfeiting lame.

My lines of amorous desire
I wrote to kindle and blow others' fire;
And 't was a barbarous delight
My fancy promis'd from the sight:
But now, my Love, the mighty Phalaris, I
My burning Bull the first do try.

 

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THE INCONSTANT.

I never yet could see that face
Which had no dart for me;
From fifteen years, to fifty's space,
They all victorious be.
Love, thou'rt a devil, if I may call thee one;
For sure in me thy name is Legion.

Colour, or shape, good limbs, or face,
Goodness, or wit, in all I find;
In motion or in speech a grace;
If all fail, yet ’tis woman-kind;