finished Rolling Stone Pattern

The Waiting Maid

Thy maid? ah, find some nobler theame

Whereon thy doubts to place;

Nor by a low suspect blaspheme

The glories of thy face.

Alas, she makes thee shine so fair,

So exquisitely bright,

That her dim lamp must disappear

Before thy potent light.

Three hourse each morn in dressing thee,

Maliciously are spent;

And make that beauty tyranny,

That's else a civil government.

The adorning thee with so much art,

Is but a barb'arous skill;

'Tis like the poys'oning of a dart

Too apt before to kill.

The min'istring angels none can see;

'Tis not their beauty'or face

For which by men they worshipt be,

But their high office and their place.

Thous art my goddess, my saint, she;

I pray to her only to pray to thee.

Dialogue

she    What have we done?  What cruel passion mov'd thee

          Thus to ruine her that lov'd thee?

           Me thou'hast robb'd, but what art thou 

           Thy self the richer now?

            Shame succeeds the short-liv'd pleasure;

            So soon is spent and gone this thy ill-gotten treasure.

He        We'have done no harm; nor was it theft in me,

             But noblest charity in thee.

             I'll the well-gotten pleasure

             Safe in my mem'ory treasure;

             What though the flower it self do wast, the essence from it 

             drawn does long and sweeter last.

She       No; I'm undone; my honour thou hast slain, and nothing can 

             restore't again. Art and labour to bestow,

             Upon the carcase of it now, Is but t'embalm a body

             dead, The figure may remain, the life and beauty's fled.

He         Never, my dear, was honour yet undone

             By love, but indiscretion.

              To th'wise it all things does allow,

             And cares not what we do, but how.

             Like tapers shut in ancient urns,

             Unless it let in air, forever shines and burns.

She        Thou first perhaps who didst the fault commit,

              Wilt make thy wicked boast of it.

              For men, with Roman pride, above

              The conquest, do the triumph love;

                Nor think a perfect victo'ry gain'd,

               Unless they through the streets their captive lead

               enchain'd.

He           Who e're his secret joys has open laid,

                The baud to his own wife is made.

                Beside what boast is left for me,

                Whose whole wealth's a gift from thee?

                 'Tis you the conqu'erour are, 'tis you

                Who have not only ta'ne, but bound and gag'd me

                 too.

She           Though publick pun'ishment we escape, the sin

                 Will rack and torture  us with in:

                 Guilt and sin our bosom bears;

                  And though fair, yet the fruit appears,

                  That worm which now the core does wast,

                  When long t'has gnaw'd within will break the skin

                  at last.

He              That thirsty drink, that hungry food I sought,

                   That wounded balm, is all my fault.

                   And thou in pity didst apply

                   The kind and only remedy:

                   The cause absolves the crime; since me

                   So mighty force did move, so mighty goodness thee.

She              Curse on thine arts! methinks I hate thee now,

                   And yet I'm sure I love thee too!

                   I'm angry, but my wrath will prove

                   More innocent than did thy love.

                   Thou hast this day undone me quite,

                   Yet wilt undo me more should'st thou not come night.

Abraham Cowley 

Selected Poetry and Prose