The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 2/The Request
THE MISTRESS.
THE REQUEST.
I'ave often wish'd to love; what shall I do?Me still the cruel boy does spare;And I a double task must bear,First to woo him, and then a mistress too.Come at last and strike, for shame,If thou art any thing besides a name;I'll think thee else no God to be,But poets rather Gods, who first created thee.
I ask not one in whom all beauties grow;Let me but love, whate'er she be,She cannot seem deform'd to me;And I would have her seem to others so.Desire takes wings and straight does fly,It stays not dully to enquire the Why.That happy thing, a lover, grown,I shall not see with others' eyes, scarce with mine own.
If she be coy, and scorn my noble fire;If her chill heart I cannot move;Why I'll enjoy the very love,And make a mistress of my own desire.Flames their most vigorous heat do hold,And purest light, if compass'd round with cold:So, when sharp winter means most harm,The springing plants are by the snow itself kept warm.
But do not touch my heart, and so be gone;Strike deep thy burning arrows in!Lukewarmness I account a sin,As great in love as in religion.Come arm'd with flames; for I would proveAll the extremities of mighty Love.Th' excess of heat is but a fable;We know the torrid zone is now found habitable.
Among the woods and forests thou art found,There boars and lions thou dost tame;Is not my heart a nobler game?Let Venus, men; and beasts, Diana, wound!Thou dost the birds thy subjects make;Thy nimble feathers do their wings o'ertake:Thou all the spring their songs dost hear;Make me love too, I'll sing to thee all the year!
What service can mute fishes do to thee?Yet against them thy dart prevails, Piercing the armour of their scales;And still thy sea-born mother lives i' th' sea.Dost thou deny only to meThe no-great privilege of captivity?I beg or challenge here thy bow;Either thy pity to me, or else thine anger, show.
Come! or I'll teach the world to scorn that bow:I'll teach them thousand wholesome artsBoth to resist and cure thy darts,More than thy skilful Ovid e'er did know.Musick of sighs thou shalt not hear,Nor drink one wretched lover's tasteful tear:Nay, unless soon thou woundest me,My verses shall not only wound, but murder, thee.