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Tell me not of a face that's fair,
Nor lip and cheek that's red, Nor of the tresses of her hair,
Nor curls in order laid ;
That like an angel sings;
I would have all these things.
And it must be a she?
Is, that she will love me.
The glories of your ladies be
But metaphors of things, And but resemble what we see
Each common object brings. Roses out-red their lips and cheeks,
Lilies their whiteness stain ; What fool is he that shadows seeks, And may the substance gain!
Then if thou’lt have me love a lass,
Let it be one that's kind, Else I'm a servant to the glass,
That's with Canary lin’d.
War's my friend so melancholy?
Pr’ythee why so sad, why so sad? Beauty's vain, and love's a folly,
Wealth and women make men mad. To him that has a heart that's jolly, Nothing's grievous, nothing's sad.
Come, cheer up, my lad.
Does thy mistress seem to fly thee?
Pr’ythee don't repine, don't repine :
Of her love, deny her thine ;
Drown thy thoughts in wine.
Try again, and don't give over,
Ply her, she's thine own, she's thine own:
They are tyrants if you moan;
Let her then alone.
If thy courtship can't invite her,
Nor to condescend, nor to bend,
Thy only wisdom is to slight her,
And her beauty discommend. Such a niceness will requite her: Yet, if thy love will not end,
Love thyself and friend.
Love, I must tell thee, I'll no longer be
Now 'tis return’d,
Or at thine altar burn'd. Love, like religion, 's made an airy name, To awe those fools whom want of wit makes tame.
There's no such thing as quiver, shafts, or bow,
And grieve the mind,
Women no sorrows find. 'Tis not our persons, nor our parts, can move 'em, Nor is’t men's worth, but wealth, makes ladies love
Reason, henceforth, not love, shall be my guide,
And so pull down
And females' fancy'd crown.
In these unbridled times who would not strive To free his neck from all prerogative?
Within this bottle's to be seen
Born of the royal vine :
No higher name than wine.
'Tis ladies' liquor: here one might
With beauty and with taste,
Are here together plac'd.
Physicians may prescribe their whey,
And clarify the blood;
And drowns them in a flood.
This poets makes, else how could I
Nay, and write sonnets too;
What could Canary do:
the vessel's bowels out,
Crown each hand with a brimmer;
And every soul a swimmer.
LOVE'S WITHOUT REASON.
'Tis not my lady's face that makes me love her,
Though beauty there doth rest,
that never did discover
But I, that have seen thousands more, See nought in hers but what in others are, Only because I think she's fair, she's fair.
"Tis not her virtues, nor those vast perfections,
That crowd together in her,
Engage my soul to win her, For those are only brief collections
Of what's in man in folio writ;
Which, by their imitative wit, Women, like apes and children, strive to do; But we that have the substance slight the show,
"Tis not her birth, her friends, nor yet her treasure,
My freeborn soul can hold;
For chains are chains, though gold:
Nor for that old morality