The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 2/Love's Ingratitude
LOVE'S INGRATITUDE.
I Little thought, thou fond ingrateful sin!When first I let thee in,And gave thee but a partIn my unwary heart,That thou wouldst e'er have grownSo 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 theeWith 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 takeThis 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 devourEach 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.