'Twas this made Veftal-Maids love-fick, And venture to be bury'd Quick. Some by their Fathers, and their Brothers, To be made Miftreffes and Mothers : 'Tis this that Proudeft Dames enamours On Lacquies, and Valets des Chambers Their haughty Stomachs overcomes, And makes em ftoop to dirty, Grooms 3 To flight the World, and to difparage Claps, Iffue, Infamy, and Marriage.
Quoth fhe, Thefe Judgments are fevere, Yet fuch as I fhould rather bear,
Than truft Men with their Oaths, or prove
Their Faith and Secrefie in Love hi
Says he, There is a weighty Reafon
For Secrecy in Love, as Treafon.
Love is a Burglarer, a Felon,
That at the Window-eye does fteal in
To rob the Heart, and with his Prey
Steals out again a closer way,
Which whofoever can discover,
He's fure (as he deferves) to fuffer.
Love is a a Fire, that burns and sparkles
In Men as natʼrally as in Charcoals,
Which footy Chymifts stop in holes,
When out of Wood they extract Coals;
So Lovers fhou'd their Paffions choak,
That though they burn they may not smoak;
'Tis like that sturdy Thief that ftole
And dragg'd Beasts backwards into's hole:
So Love does Lovers, and us Men
Draws by the Tails into his Den;
That no Impreffion may discover,
And trace t' his Cave the wary Lover.
But if you doubt 1 fhou'd reveal
What you entrust me under Seal,
I'll prove my self as clofe and vertuous
As your own Secretary, Albertus.
Quoth fhe, I grant you may be close
In hiding what your Aims propofe:
Love-Paffions are like Parables,
By which Men still mean fomething else:
Though Love be all the World's pretence,
Money's the Mythologick Sence,
The real Subftance of the Shadow
Which all Addrefs and Courtship's made to.
Thought he I understand your Play,
And how to quit you your own way ;
He that will win his Dame muft do
As Love does, when he bends his Bow,
With one Hand thruft the Lady from,
And with the other pull her Home.
1 grant, quoth he, Wealth is a great
Provocative to am'rous Heat;
It is all Philters, and high Diet,
That makes Love Rampant, and to fly out: 'Tis Beauty always in the Flower,
That Buds and Blooms at Fourfcore:
'Tis that by which the Sun and Moon
At their own Weapons are out-done:
That makes Knights-Errant fall in Trances,
And lay about 'em in Romances:
'Tis Vertue, Wit and Worth, and all
That Men Divine and Sacred call;
For what is Worth in any thing,
But fo much Money as 'twill bring
Or what but Riches is there known,
Which Man can folely call his own ;
In which no Creature goes his half,
Unless it be to fquint and laugh?
I do confefs, with Goods and Land
I'd have a Wife at fecond hand 3
And fuch you are: Nor is't your Perfon
My Stomachs fet so sharp and fierce on,
But 'tis (your better part) your Riches,
That my enamour'd Heart bewitches;
Let me your Fortunes but poffefs,
And fettle your Perfon how you please,
Or make it o'er in truft to th' Devil,
You'll find me reasonable and civil.
Quoth fhe, I like this plainness better Than falfe Mock-Paffion, Speech, or Letter, Or any Feat of Qualm, or Swooning, But Hanging of your felf, or Drowning ; Your only way with me to break Your mind, is breaking of your Neck; For as when Merchants Break, o'er thrown Like Nine-pins, they ftrike others down;
So that wou'd break my Heart, which done,
My tempting Fortune is
These are but Trifles, ev'ry Lover
Will damn himfelf over and over,
And greater matters undertake
For a lefs worthy Mifterfs fake:
Yet th' are the only ways to prove
Th' unfeign'd Realities of Love ;
For he that hangs, or beats out's Brains,
The Devil's in him if he feigns.
Quoth Hudibras, This way's too rough
For mere Experiment, and Proof;
It is no jefting, trivial matter,
To fwing i' th' Air, or douce in Water,
And, like a Water-witch, try love
That's to deftroy and not to prove:
As if a Man fhou'd be diffected,
To find what part is diffaffected;
Your better way is to make over
In trust, your Fortune to your Lover;
Truft is a Tryal, if it break,
Tis not fo defp'rate as a Neck;
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