The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 2/The Vain Love
THE VAIN LOVE.
Loving one first because she could love Nobody, afterwards loving her with Desire.
What new-found witchcraft was in thee,
With thine own cold to kindle me?
Strange art! like him that should devise
To make a burning-glass of ice:
When winter so, the plants would harm,
Her snow itself does keep them warm.
Fool that I was! who, having found
A rich and sunny diamond,
Admir'd the hardness of the stone,
But not the light with which it shone:
Your brave and haughty scorn of all
Was stately and monarchical.
All gentleness, with that esteem'd,
A dull and slavish virtue seem'd;
Shouldst thou have yielded then to me,
Thou 'dst lost what I most lov'd in thee;
For who would serve one, whom he sees
That he could conquer if he please?
It far'd with me, as if a slave
In triumph led, that does perceive
With what a gay majestick pride
His conqueror through the streets does ride,
Should be contented with his woe,
Which makes up such a comely show.
I sought not from thee a return,
But without hopes or fears did burn;
My covetous passion did approve
The hoarding-up, not use, of love.
My love a kind of dream was grown,
A foolish, but a pleasant one:
From which I'm waken'd now; but, oh!
Prisoners to die are waken'd so;
For now th' effects of loving are
Nothing but longings, with despair:
Despair, whose torments no men, sure,
But lovers and the damn'd, endure.
Her scorn I doted once upon,
Ill object for affection;
But since, alas! too much ’tis prov'd,
That yet 't was something that I lov'd;
Now my desires are worse, and fly,
At an impossibility:
Desires which, whilst so high they soar,
Are proud as that I lov'd before.
What lover can like me complain,
Who first lov'd vainly, next in vain!
With thine own cold to kindle me?
Strange art! like him that should devise
To make a burning-glass of ice:
When winter so, the plants would harm,
Her snow itself does keep them warm.
Fool that I was! who, having found
A rich and sunny diamond,
Admir'd the hardness of the stone,
But not the light with which it shone:
Your brave and haughty scorn of all
Was stately and monarchical.
All gentleness, with that esteem'd,
A dull and slavish virtue seem'd;
Shouldst thou have yielded then to me,
Thou 'dst lost what I most lov'd in thee;
For who would serve one, whom he sees
That he could conquer if he please?
It far'd with me, as if a slave
In triumph led, that does perceive
With what a gay majestick pride
His conqueror through the streets does ride,
Should be contented with his woe,
Which makes up such a comely show.
I sought not from thee a return,
But without hopes or fears did burn;
My covetous passion did approve
The hoarding-up, not use, of love.
My love a kind of dream was grown,
A foolish, but a pleasant one:
From which I'm waken'd now; but, oh!
Prisoners to die are waken'd so;
For now th' effects of loving are
Nothing but longings, with despair:
Despair, whose torments no men, sure,
But lovers and the damn'd, endure.
Her scorn I doted once upon,
Ill object for affection;
But since, alas! too much ’tis prov'd,
That yet 't was something that I lov'd;
Now my desires are worse, and fly,
At an impossibility:
Desires which, whilst so high they soar,
Are proud as that I lov'd before.
What lover can like me complain,
Who first lov'd vainly, next in vain!