Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE REQUEST, by ABRAHAM COWLEY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE REQUEST, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: I have ofter wisht to love; what shall I doe?
Last Line: My verses shall not only wound, but murther thee.


1.

I Have often wisht to love; what shall I doe?
Me still the cruell Boy does spare;
And I a double taske must beare,
First to wooe him, and then a Mistresse too.
Come at last, and strike for shame;
If thou art any thing besides a name;
Ile thinke Thee else no God to bee;
But Poets rather Gods, who first created Thee.

2.

I aske not one in whom all beauties flow,
Let me but love, what'ere she bee,
Shee cannot seeme deform'd to me;
And I would have her seeme to others so.
Desire takes wings, and strait does fly,
It stayes not dully to enquire the why.
When I'm that thing a Lover growne,
I shall not see with other's Eyes, scarce with mine owne.

3.

If she be coy, and scorne my noble fire,
If her chill Heart I cannot move,
Why I'll enjoy the very Love,
And make a Mistresse of my own Desire.
Flames their most vigorous heat doe hold,
And purest light, if compasst round with cold:
So when sharp Winter meanes most harme,
The Spring Plants are by the Snow it selfe kept warm.

4.

But doe not touch my heart, and so be gone;
Strike deepe thy burning arrowes in:
Lukewarmnesse I account a sinne,
As great in Love, as in Religion.
Come arm'd with flames, for I will prove
All the extremities of mighty Love.
The excesse of heat is but a fable;
Wee know the torrid Zone is now found habitable.

5.

Among the Woods and Forests thou art found,
There Bores 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 doe their wings o'ertake:
At every spring they chant thy praise;
Make me but love like them, I'le sing thee better laies.

6.

What service can mute Fishes doe to Thee?
Yet against them thy Dart prevailes,
Peircing the armour of their Scales;
And still thy sea-borne Mother lives i' th' Sea.
Dost thou deny only to mee
The no great priviledge of Captivity?
I beg or challenge here thy Bow;
Either thy pitty to mee, or else thine anger show.

7.

Come; or I'le teach the world to scorne that Bow:
I'le teach them thousand wholsome arts,
Both to resist and cure thy darts,
More then thy skilfull Ovid ere did know.
Musick of sighes thou shalt not heare,
Nor drinke no more on wretched Lover's Teare:
Nay, unlesse soone thou woundest mee,
My Verses shall not only wound, but murther Thee.





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