The Dissembler.

UNhurt, untoucht did I complain;
And terrifi'd all others with the pain:
But now I feel the mighty evil;
Ah, there's no fooling with the Devil!
So wanton men, whilst others they would fright,
Themselves have met a real Spright.

I thought, I'll swear, an handsome ly
Had been no sin at all in Poetry:
But now I suffer an Arrest,
For words were spoke by me in jest.
Dull, sottish God of Love, and can it be
Thou understand'st not Raillerie?

Darts, and Wounds, and Flame, and Heat,
I nam'd but for the Rhime, or the Conceit.
Nor meant my verse should raised be,
To this sad fame of Prophesie;
Truth gives a dull Propriety to my stile,
And all the Metaphors does spoile:

In things, where Fancy much does reign,
Tis dangerous too cunningly to feign.
The Play at last a Truth does grow,
And Custom into Nature go.
By this curst art of begging I became
Lame, with counterfeiting Lame.

My Lines of amorous desire
I wrote to kindle and blow others fire:
And 'twas a barbarous delight
My Fancy promise'd from the sight;
But now, by Love, the mighty Phalaris, I
My burning Bull the first do try.