Some think your commendation you deserve, 'Cause you of old Augustus did preserve. Why did you still prolong that fatal breath, That banish'd Ovid, and was Tully's death? But I suppose that neither of 'em you, Nor Orator nor Poet ever knew; Wherefore I wonder not, you shou'd comply, And the Worlds Tyrant so far gratify. Thou truly to all Tyrants art of use, Their madness flies before thy pow'rful juice. Their heads with better wreaths, I pri'thee, crown, And let the World in them thy kindness own. At thy command forth from its scorched Heart, Of Tyrants Love the greatest does depart. False Love, I mean; for thou ne'r try'st t'expel True Love, who, like a good King, governs well. Justly that Dog star, Cupid, thou do'st hate, Whose fire kills Herbs, and Monsters does create.
This poem is in the pubic domain.
Abraham Cowley is the author of The Mistress (1647).
Date Published: 1711-01-01
Source URL: https://poets.org/poem/lettuce