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Poem	I long to talk with some old lover's ghost, Who died before the God of Love was born: I cannot think that he, who then loved most, Sunk so low as to love one which did scorn. But since this god produced a destiny, And that vice-nature, Custom, lets it be, I must love her that loves not me. Sure, they which made him god meant not so much, Nor he in his young godhead practised it; But when an even flame two hearts did touch, His office was indulgently to fit Actives to passives. Correspondency Only his subject was; it cannot be Love, till I love her that loves me. But every modern god will now extend His vast prerogative as far as Jove. To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend, All is the purlieu of the God of Love. Oh were we wakened by this tyranny To ungod this child again, it could not be I should love her who loves not me. Rebel and atheist too, why murmur I As though I felt the worst that love could do? Love might make me leave loving, or might try A deeper plague, to make her love me too, Which, since she loves before, I'm loth to see; Falsehood is worse than hate; and that must be, If she whom I love should love me.
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