The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 1/The Account

by Abraham Cowley

VI.

THE ACCOUNT.

When all the stars are by thee told(The endless sums of heavenly gold);Or when the hairs are reckon'd all,From sickly autumn's head that fall; Or when the drops that make the sea,Whilst all her sands they counters be;Thou then, and thou alone, may'st proveTh' arithmetician of my love.An hundred loves at Athens score,At Corinth write an hundred more:Fair Corinth does such beauties bear,So few, is an escaping there.Write then at Chios seventy-three;Write then at Lesbos (let me see)Write me at Lesbos ninety down,Full ninety loves, and half a one.And, next to these, let me presentThe fair Ionian regiment;And next the Carian company;Five hundred both effectively.Three hundred more at Rhodes and Crete;Three hundred't is, I'm sure, complete;For arms at Crete each face does bear,And every eye's an archer there.Go on this stop why dost thou make?Thou think'st, perhaps, that I mistake.Seems this to thee too great a sum?Why many thousands are to come;The mighty Xerxes could not boastSuch different nations in his host.On; for my love, if thou be'st weary,Must find some better secretary.I have not yet my Persian told,Nor yet my Syrian loves enroll'd, Nor Indian, nor Arabian;Nor Cyprian loves, nor African;Nor Scythian nor Italian flames;There's a whole map behind of namesOf gentle loves i' th' temperate zone,And cold ones in the frigid one,Cold frozen loves, with which I pine,And parched loves beneath the Line.