The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 2/Dialogue
Appearance
DIALOGUE.
She. What have we done? what cruel passion mov'd thee,Thus to ruin her that lov'd thee?Me thou'st robb'd; but what art thouThyself the richer now?Shame succeeds the short-liv'd pleasure;So soon is spent, and gone, this thy ill-gotten treasure!
He. We have done no harm; nor was it theft in me,But noblest charity in thee.I'll the well-gotten pleasureSafe in my memory treasure:What though the flower itself do waste,The essence from it drawn does long and sweeter last.
She. No: I'm undone; my honour thou hast slain,And nothing can restore't again.Art and labour to bestow,Upon the carcase of it now,Is but t' embalm a body dead;The figure may remain, the life and beauty's fled.
He. Never, my dear, was honour yet undoneBy Love, but Indiscretion. To th' wise it all things does allow;And cares not What we do, but How.Like tapers shut in ancient urns,Unless it let-in air, for ever shines and burns.
She. Thou first, perhaps, who didst the fault commit,Wilt make thy wicked boast of it;For men, with Roman pride, aboveThe conquest do the triumph love;Nor think a perfect victory gain'd,Unless they through the streets their captive lead enchain'd.
He. Whoe'er his secret joys has open laid,The bawd to his own wife is made;Beside, what boast is left for me,Whose whole wealth's a gift from thee?’Tis you the conqueror are, ’tis youWho have not only ta'en, but bound and gagg'd me too.
She. Though publick punishment we escape, the sinWill rack and torture us within:Guilt and sin our bosom bears;And, though fair yet the fruit appears,That worm which now the core does waste,When long 't has gnaw'd within, will break the skin at last.
He. That thirsty drink, that hungry food, I sought,That wounded balm is all my fault; And thou in pity didst apply,The kind and only remedy:The cause absolves the crime; since meSo mighty force did move, so mighty goodness thee.
She. Curse on thine arts! methinks I hate thee now;And yet I'm sure I love thee too!I'm angry; but my wrath will proveMore innocent than did thy love.Thou hast this day undone me quite;Yet wilt undo me more shouldst thou not come at night.