Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-defervings known,
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be the with that goodness bleft
Which may merit name of beft;
If the be not kind to me,
What care I how good she be?
'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do,
Who without them dare to woo;
And unless that mind I fee,
What care I how great she be?
Great or good, or kind or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If the love me, this believe,
I will die e'er she shall grieve;
If the flight me when I woo,
can fcorn and let her go;
If fhe be not fit for me,
What care I for whom she be?
AMARYLLIS I did woo,
And I courted Phillis too;
Daphne for her love I chofe;
Chloris, for that damask rose
In her cheek, I held as dear,
Yea, a thousand liked, well-near;
And, in love with all together,
Feared the enjoying either;
'Cause to be of one poffefs'd,
Barr'd the hope of all the rest.
LORDLY gallants, tell me this:
Though my fafe content you weigh not,
In your greatness what one bliss
Have you gain'd, that I enjoy not?
You have honours, you have wealth,
I have peace, and I have health;
All the day I merry make,
And at night no care I take.
Bound to none my fortunes be;
This or that man's fall I fear not;
Him I love that loveth me;
For the reft a pin I care not.
You are fad when others chafe,
And grow merry as they laugh;
I, that hate it, and am free,
Laugh and weep as pleaseth me.
WANTONS! 'tis not your fweet eyings,
Forced paffions, feigned dyings,
Geftures, temptings, tears, beguilings,
Dancings, fingings, kiffings, fmilings,
Nor those painted fweets, with which
You unwary men bewitch,
(All united, nor asunder)
That can compass fuch a wonder,
Or to win you love prevail,
Where her moving virtues fail.
Beauties! 'tis not all those features
Placed in the fairest creatures,
Though their beft they should discover,
That can tempt, from her, a lover.
'Tis not those soft snowy breasts,
Where love, rock'd by pleasure, rests,
Nor the nectar that we fip
From a honey-dropping lip;
Nor those eyes whence beauty's lances
Wound the heart with wanton glances;
Nor those fought delights, that lie
In love's hidden treasury,
That can liking gain, where she
Will the beft-beloved be.
For, should those who think they may Draw my love from her away,
Bring forth all their female graces,
Wrap me in their close embraces;
Practife all the arts they may,
Weep, or fing, or kifs, or pray;
One poor thought of her would arm me
So as Circe could not harm me.
Since, befides thofe excellencies,
Wherewith others charm the fenfes,
She whom I have praised so,
Yields delight for reason too.
Who could doat on thing fo common,
As mere outward-handsome woman?
Thofe half-beauties only win
Fools to let affection in.
Vulgar wits, from reason shaken,
Are with fuch impostures taken;
And, with all their art in love,
Wantons can but wantons move.
PHILARETE TO HIS MISTRESS.
HAIL! thou fairest of all creatures
Upon whom the fun doth fhine; Model of all rareft features,
And perfection most divine: Thrice, all hail! and bleffed be
Those that love and honour thee.
Though a ftranger to the mufes,
Young, obferved, and despised,
Yet, fuch art thy love infuses,
That I thus have poetized.
Read, and be content to fee
Thy admired pow'r in me.
On this glass of thy perfection
If that any woman pry,
Let them thereby take direction
To adorn themselves thereby :
And if ought amifs they view,
Let them dress themselves anew.
This thy picture, therefore show I,
Naked, unto every eye;
Yet no fear of rival know I,
Neither touch of jealousy;
For, the more make love to thee,
I the more fhall pleafed be.
I am no Italian lover,
That will mew thee in a jail; But thy beauty I discover, English-like, without a veil. If thou may'st be won away, Win and wear thee he who may.
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