 | Poems Upon Several Occasions |  |
87
The Incurable.
I
To what fair Doctress in the World shall IWith Courtiers soothing Arts my self apply,
To get for wounded Love a Remedy?
II
I bleed, and all the Sluces of my SoulCannot the Deluge of my Blood controul,
I wallow'd in my Gore, and in the Torrent rowle.
III
I'm too far gone, consumptive like I pine,I've made my Will, and now my Life resign,
But not to her who did my Death design.
IV
It works like lingring Poyson in the Womb,And each Day brings me nearer to my Tomb,
My Magazin's consum'd by this unlucky Bomb.
88
V
Medea now, nor all the Gods above,Can sift the Poyson that is mixt with Love,
Death the best Remedy at last must prove.
VI
If ever I expect a longer DateOf Life, I must reverse my rigid Fate,
And, like a God, another Frame create.
| Poems Upon Several Occasions | |