Loves Ingratitude.

I Little thought, thou fond ingrateful Sin,
When first I let thee in,
And gave thee but a part
In my unwary Heart,
That thou wouldst ere have grown,
So false or strong to make it all thine own.

At mine own breast with care I fed thee still,
Letting thee suck thy fill,
And daintily I nourisht Thee
With Idle thoughts and Poetrie!
What ill returns dost thou allow?
I fed thee then, and thou dost sterve me now.

There was a time, when thou wast cold and chill,
Nor had'st the power of doing ill;
Into my bosom did I take,
This frozen and benummed Snake,
Not fearing from it any harm;
But now it stings that brest which made it warm.

What cursed weed's this Love! but one grain sow,
And the whole field 'twill overgrow;
Strait will it choak up and devour
Each wholesome herb and beauteous flour!
Nay unless something soon I do,
'Twill kill I fear my very Lawrel too.

But now all's gon, I now, alas, complain,
Declare, protest and threat in vain.
Since by my own unforc'd consent,
The Traytor has my Government,
And is so settled in the Throne,
That 'twere Rebellion now to claim mine owne.