The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 2/The Dissembler
THE DISSEMBLER.
Unhurt, untouch'd, did I complain,And terrify'd all others with the pain:But now I feel the mighty evil;Ah! there's no fooling with the devil!So, wanton men, whilst others they would fright,Themselves have met a real sprite.
I thought, I'll swear, an handsome lyeHad been no sin at all in poetry;But now I suffer an arrest,For words were spoke by me in jest.Dull, sottish God of love! and can it beThou understandst not raillery?
Darts, and wounds, and flame, and heat,I nam'd but for the rhyme, or the conceit;Nor meant my verse should raised beTo this sad fame of prophesy:Truth gives a dull propriety to my style,And all the metaphors does spoil.
In things where fancy much does reign,’Tis dangerous too cunningly to feign;The play at last a truth does grow,And Custom into Nature go;By this curst art of begging I becameLame with counterfeiting lame.
My lines of amorous desireI wrote to kindle and blow others' fire;And 't was a barbarous delightMy fancy promis'd from the sight:But now, my Love, the mighty Phalaris, IMy burning Bull the first do try.