The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 2/Love's Ingratitude

by Abraham Cowley

LOVE'S INGRATITUDE.

I Little thought, thou fond ingrateful sin!
When first I let thee in,
And gave thee but a part
In my unwary heart,
That thou wouldst e'er have grown
So false or strong to make it all thine own.

At mine own breast with care I fed thee still,
Letting thee suck thy fill;
And daintily I nourish'd thee
With idle thoughts and poetry!
What ill returns dost thou allow!—
I fed thee then, and thou dost starve me now.

There was a time when thou wast cold and chill,
Nor hadst the power of doing ill;
Into my bosom did I take
This frozen and benumbed snake,
Not fearing from it any harm;
But now it stings that breast which made it warm.

What cursed weed 's this Love! but one grain sow,
And the whole field 't will overgrow;
Straight will it choke up and devour
Each wholesome herb and beauteous flower!
Nay, unless something soon I do,
'T will kill, I fear, my very laurel too.

But now all's gone-I now, alas! complain,
Declare, protest, and threat, in vain;
Since, by my own unforc'd consent,
The traitor has my government,
And is so settled in the throne,
That 't were rebellion now to claim mine own.

 

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