The mistresse, or, Several copies of love-verses written by Mr. A. Cowley, in his youth, and now since his death thought fit to be published.

The Thiefe.

1.

THou rob'st my Daies of businesse and delights, Of sleep thou rob'st my Nights: Ah lovely Thiefe, what wilt thou doe? What? rob me of Heaven too? Even in my prayers thou hauntest me; And I, with wild Idolatry Begin to God, and end them all, to Thee.

2.

Is it a Sinne to Love, that it should thus Like an ill Conscience torture us? What ere I do, where ere I go, (None Guiltlesse ere was haunted so) Still, still, me thinks thy face I view, And still thy shape does me pursue, As if, not you Mee, but I had murthered You.

3.

From books I strive some remedy to take, But thy Name all the Letters make;

What ere 'tis writ, I find that there, Like Points and Comma's every where; Me blest for this let no man hold, For I, as Midas did of old, Perish by turning every thing to Gold.

4.

What do I seek, alas, or what do I Attempt in vain from thee to fly? For making thee my Deitie I gave thee then Ubiquitie. My pains resemble Hell in this; The divine presence there too is, But to torment Men, not to give them blisse.