The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 1/Ode

by Abraham Cowley

ODE.

Here's to thee, Dick; this whining love despise;
Pledge me, my friend; and drink till thou be'st wise.
It sparkles brighter far than she:
'T is pure and right, without deceit;
And such no woman ere will be:
No; they are all sophisticate.

With all thy servile pains what canst thou win,
But an ill-favour'd and uncleanly sin?
A thing so vile, and so short-liv'd.
That Venus' joys, as well as she,
With reason may be said to be
From the neglected foam deriv'd.

Whom would that painted toy a beauty move;
Whom would it e'er persuade to court and love;
Could he a woman's heart have seen
(But, oh! no light does thither come),
And view'd her perfectly within,
When he lay shut up in her womb?

Follies they have so numberless in store,
That only he who loves them can have more.
Neither their sighs nor tears are true;
Those idly blow, these idly fall,
Nothing like to ours at all:
But sighs and tears have sexes too.

Here's to thee again; thy senseless sorrows drown;
Let the glass walk, till all things too go round!
Again, till these two lights be four;
No error here can dangerous prove:
Thy passion, man, deceiv'd thee more;
None double see like men in love.

 

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