The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 2/The Incurable
THE INCURABLE.
I try'd if books would cure my love, but foundLove made them nonsense all;I'apply'd receipts of business to my wound,But stirring did the pain recall.
As well might men who in a fever fry,Mathematick doubts debate;As well might men who mad in darkness lie,Write the dispatches of a state.
I try'd devotion, sermons, frequent prayer,But those did worse than useless prove;For prayers are turn'd to sin, in those who areOut of charity, or in love.
I try'd in wine to drown the mighty care;But wine, alas! was oil to th' fire:Like drunkards' eyes, my troubled fancy thereDid double the desire.
I try'd what mirth and gaiety would do,And mix'd with pleasant companies;My mirth did graceless and insipid grow,And 'bove a clinch it could not rise.
Nay, God forgive me for 't! at last. I try'd,'Gainst this some new desire to stir, And lov'd again, but 't was where I espy'dSome faint resemblances of her.
The physick made me worse, with which I stroveThis mortal ill t'expel;As wholesome medicines the disease improve,There where they work not well.