102
COWLEY'S POEMS.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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,
'Gainst this some new desire to stir,
