The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 2/Answer to the Platonicks
ANSWER TO THE PLATONICKS.
So angels love: so let them love for me;
When I'm all soul, such shall my love too be:
Who nothing here but like a spirit would do,
In a short time, believe't, will be one too.
But, shall our love do what in beasts we see?
Ev'n beasts eat too, but not so well as we:
And you as justly might in thirst refuse
The use of wine, because beasts water use:
They taste those pleasures as they do their food;
Undress'd they take 't, devour it raw and crude:
But to us men, Love cooks it at his fire,
And adds the poignant sauce of sharp desire.
Beasts do the same: 't is true; but ancient Fame
Says, Gods themselves turn'd beasts to do the same.
The Thunderer, who, without the female bed,
Could Goddesses bring-forth from out his head,
Chose rather mortals this way to create;
So much he' esteem'd his pleasure 'bove his state.
Ye talk of fires which shine, but never burn;
In this cold world they'll hardly serve our turn;
As useless to despairing lovers grown,
As lambent flames to men i' th' frigid zone.
The Sun does his pure fires on earth bestow
With nuptial warmth, to bring-forth things below;
Such is Love's noblest and divinest heat,
That warms like his, and does, like his, beget.
Lust you call this; a name to yours more just,
If an inordinate desire be lust:
Pygmalion, loving what none can enjoy,
More lustful was than the hot youth of Troy.
When I'm all soul, such shall my love too be:
Who nothing here but like a spirit would do,
In a short time, believe't, will be one too.
But, shall our love do what in beasts we see?
Ev'n beasts eat too, but not so well as we:
And you as justly might in thirst refuse
The use of wine, because beasts water use:
They taste those pleasures as they do their food;
Undress'd they take 't, devour it raw and crude:
But to us men, Love cooks it at his fire,
And adds the poignant sauce of sharp desire.
Beasts do the same: 't is true; but ancient Fame
Says, Gods themselves turn'd beasts to do the same.
The Thunderer, who, without the female bed,
Could Goddesses bring-forth from out his head,
Chose rather mortals this way to create;
So much he' esteem'd his pleasure 'bove his state.
Ye talk of fires which shine, but never burn;
In this cold world they'll hardly serve our turn;
As useless to despairing lovers grown,
As lambent flames to men i' th' frigid zone.
The Sun does his pure fires on earth bestow
With nuptial warmth, to bring-forth things below;
Such is Love's noblest and divinest heat,
That warms like his, and does, like his, beget.
Lust you call this; a name to yours more just,
If an inordinate desire be lust:
Pygmalion, loving what none can enjoy,
More lustful was than the hot youth of Troy.