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Poem by Abraham Cowley
Thou 'adst to my soul no title or pretence; I was mine own, and free, Till I had given myself to thee; But thou hast kept me slave and prisoner since. Well, since so insolent thou 'rt grown, Fond tyrant! I'll depose thee from thy throne; Such outrages must not admitted be In an elective monarchy. Part of my heart by gift did to thee fall; My country, kindred, and my best Acquaintance, were to share the rest; But thou, their covetous neighbour, drav'st out all: Nay more; thou mak'st me worship thee, And wouldst the rule of my religion be: Did ever tyrant claim such power as you, To be both emperor and pope too? The public miseries, and my private fate, Deserve some tears; but greedy thou (Insatiate maid!) wilt not allow That I one drop from thee should alienate: Nor wilt thou grant my sins a part, Though the sole cause of most of them thou art; Counting my tears thy tribute and thy due, Since first mine eyes I gave to you. Thou all my joys and all my hopes dost claim; Thou ragest like a fire in me, Converting all things into thee; Nought can resist, or not encrease the flame: Nay, every grief and every fear Thou dost devour, unless thy stamp it bear: Thy presence, like the crowned basilisk's breath, All other serpents puts to death. As men in hell are from diseases free, So from all other ills am I; Free from their known formality: But all pains eminently lie in thee! Alas, alas! I hope in vain My conquer'd soul from out thine hands to gain; Since all the natives there thou 'ast overthrown, And planted garrisons of thine own.
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