The Incurable.

I Try'd if Books would cure my Love, but found
Love made them Non-sense all.
I'apply'd Receipts of Business to my wound,
But stirring did the pain recall.

As well might men who in a feaver fry,
Mathematique doubts debate,
As well might men, who mad in darkness ly
Write the Dispatches of a State.

I try'd Devotion, Sermons, frequent Prayer,
But those did worse then useless prove;
For Pray'rs are turn'd to Sin in those who are
Out of Charity, or in Love.

I try'd in Wine to drown the mighty care;
But Wine, alas, was Oyl to th' fire.
Like Drunkards eyes, my troubled Fancy there
Did double the Desire.

I try'd what Mirth, and Gayety would do,
And mixt with pleasant Companies;
My Mirth did graceless and insipid grow,
And 'bove a Clinch it could not rise.

Nay, God forgive me for't, at last I try'd
'Gainst this some new desire to stir,
And lov'd again, but 'twas where I espy'd
Some faint Resemblances of Her.

The Physick made me worse with which I strove
This Mortal Ill t'expell,
As wholesome Med'icines the Disease improve,
There where they work not well.