To Ellinda. Vpon His Late Recovery. A Paradox.

A poem by Richard Lovelace

How I grieve that I am well!
All my health was in my sicknes,
Go then, Destiny, and tell,
Very death is in this quicknes.

Such a fate rules over me,
That I glory when I languish,
And do blesse the remedy,
That doth feed, not quench my anguish.

'Twas a gentle warmth that ceas'd
In the vizard of a feavor;
But I feare now I am eas'd
All the flames, since I must leave her.

Joyes, though witherd, circled me,
When unto her voice inured
Like those who, by harmony,
Only can be throughly cured.

Sweet, sure, was that malady,
Whilst the pleasant angel hover'd,
Which ceasing they are all, as I,
Angry that they are recover'd.

And as men in hospitals,
That are maim'd, are lodg'd and dined;
But when once their danger fals,
Ah th' are healed to be pined!

Fainting so, I might before
Sometime have the leave to hand her,
But lusty, am beat out of dore,
And for Love compell'd to wander.

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