The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 2/Her Unbelief
HER UNBELIEF.
'T is a strange kind of ignorance this in you!That you your victories should not spy,Victories gotten by your eye!That your bright beams, as those of comets do,Should kill, but not know how, nor who!
That truly you my idol might appear,Whilst all the people smell and seeThe odorous flames. I offer thee,Thou sitt'st, and dost not see, nor smell, nor hear,Thy constant, zealous worshiper.
They see't too well who at my fires repine;Nay, th' unconcern'd themselves do proveQuick-eyeḍ enough to spy my love; Nor does the cause in thy face clearlier shine,Than the effect appears in mine.
Fair infidel! by what unjust decreeMust I, who with such restless careWould make this truth to thee appear,Must I, who preach it, and pray for it, beDamn'd by thy incredulity?
I, by thy unbelief, am guiltless slain:Oh, have but faith, and then, that youMay know that faith for to be true,It shall itself by a miracle maintain,And raise me from the dead again!
Meanwhile my hopes may seem to be o'erthrown;But lovers' hopes are full of art,And thus dispute—That, since my heart,Though in thy breast, yet is not by thee known,Perhaps thou may'st not know thine own.