The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 2/The Incurable

by Abraham Cowley

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Nay, God forgive me for 't! at last. I try'd,
'Gainst this some new desire to stir,
And lov'd again, but 't was where I espy'd
Some faint resemblances of her.

The physick made me worse, with which I strove
This mortal ill t'expel;
As wholesome medicines the disease improve,
There where they work not well.

 

---

---