To a Lady, asking me why I did not apply to Dr. Gibbons to be Cur'd of my Love too

Phaebus himself, who did the pain endure,
In all his Art of Physick found no Cure.
All means I try'd, all means have Fruitless prov'd;
Art only Cures, where Art the Passion mov'd.
Love is like Poyson; by some secret spell,
Poyson does Poyson, Love does Love expel.
But this, ev'n this, should I attempt, were vain;
'Tis Poyson; nay, 'tis Death, and Damning pain,
To think she Lives, and I should Love again.
Love is like Death to me; I will not try,
For I can Love but once, but once can die.
Gibbons has Art, Gibbons has Matchless skill,
Gibbons can save more Lives, than others Kill.
Love's a Disease free from ill-temper'd Air,
And ev'n Great Gibbons self is Artless there.
Life he restor'd, by Neighb'ring Death Annoy'd.
But Life is easier rais'd, than Love Destroy'd.
The cause dies not, till the effect remove,
We know that Life is but the Act of Love.
This too we know from all Conclusions try'd,
Love shall leave me, when you abandon Pride.