The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 2/Her Unbelief

by Abraham Cowley

HER UNBELIEF.

'T is a strange kind of ignorance this in you!
That you your victories should not spy,
Victories gotten by your eye!
That your bright beams, as those of comets do,
Should kill, but not know how, nor who!

That truly you my idol might appear,
Whilst all the people smell and see
The odorous flames. I offer thee,
Thou sitt'st, and dost not see, nor smell, nor hear,
Thy constant, zealous worshiper.

They see't too well who at my fires repine;
Nay, th' unconcern'd themselves do prove
Quick-eyeḍ enough to spy my love;
Nor does the cause in thy face clearlier shine,
Than the effect appears in mine.

Fair infidel! by what unjust decree
Must I, who with such restless care
Would make this truth to thee appear,
Must I, who preach it, and pray for it, be
Damn'd by thy incredulity?

I, by thy unbelief, am guiltless slain:
Oh, have but faith, and then, that you
May know that faith for to be true,
It shall itself by a miracle maintain,
And raise me from the dead again!

Meanwhile my hopes may seem to be o'erthrown;
But lovers' hopes are full of art,
And thus dispute—That, since my heart,
Though in thy breast, yet is not by thee known,
Perhaps thou may'st not know thine own.

 

---

---