The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 2/The Inconstant
THE INCONSTANT.
I never yet could see that faceWhich had no dart for me;From fifteen years, to fifty's space,They all victorious be.Love, thou'rt a devil, if I may call thee one;For sure in me thy name is Legion.
Colour, or shape, good limbs, or face,Goodness, or wit, in all I find;In motion or in speech a grace;If all fail, yet ’tis woman-kind; And I'm so weak, the pistol need not beDouble or treble charg'd to murder me.
If tall, the name of proper slays;If fair, she's pleasant as the light;If low, her prettiness does please;If black, what lover loves not night?If yellow-hair'd, I love, lest it should beTh' excuse to others for not loving me.
The fat, like plenty, fills my heart;The lean, with love makes me too so:If straight, her body's Cupid's darɩTo me; if crooked, ’tis his bow:Nay, age itself does me to rage incline,And strength to women gives, as well as wine.
Just half as large as CharityMy richly-landed Love's become;And, judg'd aright, is Constancy,Though it take up a larger room:Him, who loves always one, why should they callMore constant than the man loves always all?
Thus with unwearied wings I fleeThrough all love's gardens and his fields;And, like the wise, industrious beeNo weed but honey to me yields!Honey still spent this diligence still supplies,Though I return not home with laden thighs.
My soul at first indeed did proveOf pretty strength against a dart,Till I this habit got of love;But my consum'd and wasted heart,Once burnt to tinder with a strong desire,Since that, by every spark is set on fire.