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I'LL on; for what should hinder me
From loving and enjoying thee
Thou canst not those exceptions make,
Which vulgar, sordid mortals take—
That my fate’s too mean and low;
'T were pity I should love thee so,
If that dull cause could hinder me
In loving and enjoying thee.
It does not me a whit displease,
That the rich all honours seize ;
That you all titles make your own,
Are valiant, learned, wise, alone:
But, if you claim o'er women too
The power which over men ye do;
If you alone must lovers be;
For that, Sirs, you must pardon me.
Rather than lose what does so near
Concern my life and being here,
I’ll some such crooked ways invent,
As you, or your forefathers, went:
I’ll flatter or oppose the king,
Turn Puritan, or any thing;
I’ll force my mind to arts so new :
Grow rich, and love as well as you.
But rather thus let me remain,
As man in paradise did reign;
When perfect love did so agree
With innocence and poverty,
Adam did no jointure give ;
Himself was jointure to his Eve:
Untouch'd with avarice yet, or pride,
The rib came freely back t' his side.
A curse upon the man who taught
Women, that love was to be bought !
Rather dote only on your gold,
And that with greedy avarice hold;
For, if woman too submit
To that, and sell herself for it,
Fond lover ! you a mistress have
Of her that’s but your fellow-slave.
What should those poets mean of old,
That made their God to woo in gold
Of all men, sure, they had no cause
To bind love to such costly laws;
And yet I scarcely blame them now;
For who, alas! would not allow,
That women should such gifts receive,
Could they, as he, be what they give
If thou, my dear, thyself shouldst prize, Alas! what value would sufficer
The Spaniard could not do’t, though he
Should to both Indies jointure thee.
Thy beauties therefore wrong will take,
If thou shouldst any bargain make ;
To give all, will befit thee well;
But not at under-rates to sell.
Bestow thy beauty then on me,
Freely, as nature gave’t to thee;
"T is an exploded popish thought
To think that heaven may be bought.
Prayers, hymns, and praises, are the way,
And those my thankful Muse shall pay:
Thy body, in my verse enshrin'd,
Shall grow immortal as thy mind.
I'll fix thy title next in fame
To Sacharissa's well-sung name.
So faithfully will I declare
What all thy wondrous beauties are,
That when, at the last great assize,
All women shall together rise,
Men straight shall cast their eyes on thee,
And know at first that thou art shes
THOUGH you be absent here, I needs must say
The trees as beauteous are, and flowers as gay,
As ever they were wont to be;
Nay, the birds' rural musick too
Is as melodious and free,
As if they sung to pleasure you :
I saw a rose-bud ope this morn—I’ll swear
The blushing morning open'd not more fair.
How could it be so fair, and you away
How could the trees be beauteous, flowers so gay ?
Could they remember but last year,
How you did them, they you, delight,
The sprouting leaves which saw you here,
And call'd their fellows to the sight,
Would, looking round for the same sight in vain,
Creep back into their silent barks again.
Where'er you walk'd, trees were as reverent made,
As when of old Gods dwelt in every shade.
Is "t possible they should not know
What loss of honour they sustain,
That thus they smile and flourish now,
And still their former pride retain
Dull creatures' "t is not without cause that she,
Who fled the God of Wit, was made a tree.
In ancient times, sure, they much wiser were,
When they rejoic'd the Thracian verse to hear;
In vain did Nature bid them stay,
When Orpheus had his song begun—
They call'd their wondering roots away,
And bade them silent to him run.
How would those learned trees have follow'd you !
You would have drawn them and their peet too.
But who can blame them now for, since you’re
They’re here the only fair, and shine alone;
You did their natural rights invade;
Wherever you did walk or sit,
The thickest boughs could make no shade,
Although the sun had granted it:
The fairest flowers could please no more, near you,
Than painted flowers, set next to them, could do.
Whene'er then you come hither, that shall be
The time, which this to others is, to me.
The little joys which here are now,
The name of punishments do bear;
When by their sight they let us know
How we depriv'd of greater are:
"T is you the best of seasons with you bring;
This is for beasts, and that for men, the Spring.