The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 2/The Thief

by Abraham Cowley

THE THIEF.

Thou robb'st my days of business and delights,
Of sleep thou robb'st my nights;
Ah, lovely thief! what wilt thou do?
What? rob me of heaven too?
Thou ev'n my prayers dost steal from me;
And I, with wild idolatry,
Begin to God, and end them all to thee.

Is it a sin to love, that it should thus,
Like an ill conscience, torture us?
Whate'er I do, where'er I go,
(None guiltless e'er was haunted so!)
Still, still, methinks, thy face I view,
And still thy shape does me pursue,
As if, not you me, but I had murder'd you.

From books I strive some remedy to take,
But thy name all the letters make;
Whate'er ’tis writ, I find That there,
Like points and commas every-where:
Me blest for this let no man hold;
For I, as Midas did of old,
Perish by turning every thing to gold.

What do I seek, alas! or why do I
Attempt in vain from thee to fly?
For making thee my deity,
I gave thee then ubiquity.
My pains resemble hell in this;
The divine presence there too is,
But to torment men, not to give them bliss.

 

---

---