The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 2/The Prophet

by Abraham Cowley

THE PROPHET.

Teach me to love! go teach thyself more wit;
I chief professor am of it.
Teach craft to Scots, and thrift to Jews,
Teach boldness to the stews;
In tyrants' courts teach supple flattery;
Teach Jesuits, that have travell'd far, to lye;
Teach fire to burn, and winds to blow,
Teach restless fountains how to flow,
Teach the dull earth fixt to abide.
Teach woman-kind inconstancy and pride:
See if your diligence here will useful prove;
But, pr'ythee, teach not me to love.

The God of Love, if such a thing there be,
May learn to love from me;
He who does boast that he has been
In every heart since Adam's sin;
I'll lay my life, nay mistress on 't, that's more,
I'll teach him things he never knew before;
I'll teach him a receipt, to make
Words that weep, and tears that speak;
I'll teach him sighs, like those in death,
At which the souls go out too with the breath:
Still the soul stays, yet still does from me run,
As light and heat does with the sun.

’Tis I who Love's Columbus am; ’tis I
Who must new worlds in it descry;
Rich worlds, that yield of treasure more
Than all that has been known before.
And yet like his, I fear, my fate must be,
To find them out for others, not for me.
Me times to come, I know it, shall
Love's last and greatest prophet call;
But, ah! what's that, if she refuse
To hear the wholesome doctrines of my Muse;
If to my share the prophet's fate must come—
Hereafter fame, here martyrdom?