Incurable. To Idera

HOW oft have I, like wretched Dido, swore
I'd court Inconstancy no more?
But 'tis in vain, for I must still adore.

I pluck not up the root, but lop the Tree,
Weave Vows, as Webs, Penelope;
Still tempted I, and still as charming she.

I strive to skin the Wound of Cupid's Dart;
With a new Itch, and tickling Smart,
Still it breaks out again upon my heart.

I pour into the fifty Sister Urn;
And Sisyphus his Stone I turn;
Leave off, t' begin again, and quench my self to burn.

How oft have I dragg'd home my Fugitive?
But still my Heart the slip will give,
My Heart, that cannot without vital Passion live.

With Books and Business I would entertain,
But Books are toil, and Business pain:
He's gone I know not how, and all my Art's in vain.

The Oak and Ivy, which together grow,
If parted by an unkind Blow,
Their Arms will about one another throw.

So Birds that now forsake their Nests through fear,
When they some danger see or hear,
Will build again in the same place, another year.