O! Love! how cold, and slow to take my part!

O! Love! how cold, and slow to take my part!
Thou idle Wanderer, about my Heart;
Why thy old faithfull Souldier wilt thou see
Opprest in thine own Tents? They Murder me:
Thy flames consume, thy Arrows pierce thy Friends,
Rather on Foes pursue more Noble ends.
Achilles Sword wou'd generously bestow
A cure as certaine, as it gave the blow.
Hunters, who follow flying Game, give o're
When the Prey's caught, hope still leads on before.
Wee thy owne Slaves feele thy Tyrannick blows,
While thy tame hand's unmov'd against thy Foes.
On Men disarm'd, how can you gallant prove?
And I was long agoe disarm'd by Love.
Millions of dull Men live, and scornfull Maids,
We'll owne Love Valiant, when he these invades.
Rome, from each Corner of the wide World snatch'd
A Lawrell; or't had beene to this day Thatch'd.
But the old Souldier has his resting place,
And the good batter'd Horse is turnd to Grasse.
The Harrast Whore, who liv'd a Wretch to please
Has leave to be a Bawd, and take her ease.
For me then, who have freely spent my blood
(Love) in thy service, and soe boldly stood
In Celias Trenches; wer't not wisely done,
Ee'n to retire, and live at peace at home?
Noe, might I gaine a Godhead, to disclaime
My glorious Title to my endlesse flame,
Divinity with scorne I wou'd forsweare,
Such sweete, deare tempting Devills, Women are.
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Ovid
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