Elegy IX: Of Love and War. By Henry Cromwell.
Trust me, my Atticus, in love are wars;
And Cupid has his camp, as well as Mars:
The age that's fit for war best suits with love,
The old in both unserviceable prove,
Infirm in war, and impotent in love.
The soldiers which a general does require,
Are such as ladies would in bed desire:
Who but a soldier, and a lover, can
Bear the night's cold, in show'rs of hail and rain?
One in continual watch his station keeps,
Or on the earth in broken slumbers sleeps;
The other takes his still repeated round
By mistress' house — then lodges on the ground.
Soldiers, and lovers, with a careful eye,
Observe the motions of the enemy:
One to the walls makes his approach in form,
Pushes the siege, and takes the town by storm:
The other lays his close to Celia's fort,
Presses his point, and gains the wish'd-for port.
As soldiers, when the foe securely lies
In sleep, and wine dissolv'd, the camp surprise;
So when the jealous to their rest remove,
And all is