The Thief.

THou rob'st my Days of bus'ness and delights,
Of sleep thou rob'st my Nights;
Ah, lovely Thief what wilt thou do?
What? rob me of Heaven too?
Thou even my prayers dost steal from me.
And I, with wild Idolatrie,
Begin, to God, and end them all, to Thee.

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

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 ev'ry thing to Gold.

What do I seek, alas, or why do I
Attempt in vain from thee to fly?
For making thee my Deity,
I gave thee then Ubiquity.
My pains resemble Hell in this;
The Divine presence there too is,
But to torment Men, not to give them bliss.