How oft have I been reft of sense, By gazing on their excellence, But meeting Mopsa in my way, And looking on her face of clay, Been healed, and cured, and made as sound, As though I ne’er had had a wound? And when in tables of my heart, Love wrought such things as bred my smart, Mopsa would come, with face of clout, And in an instant wipe them out. And when their faces made me sick, Mopsa would come, with face of brick, A little heated in the fire, And break the neck of my desire. Now from their face I turn mine eyes, But (cruel panthers!) they surprise Me with their breath, that incense sweet, Which only for the gods is meet, And jointly from them doth respire, Like both the Indies set on fire: Which so o’ercomes man’s ravished sense, That souls, to follow it, fly hence. No such-like smell you if you range To th’ Stocks, or Cornhill’s square Exchange; There stood I still as any stock, Till Mopsa, with her puddle dock, Her compound or electuary, Made of old ling and young canary, Bloat-herring, cheese, and voided physic, Being somewhat troubled with a phthisic, Did cough, and fetch a sigh so deep, As did her very bottom sweep: Whereby to all she did impart, How love lay rankling at her heart: Which, when I smelt, desire was slain, And they breathed forth perfumes in vain. Their angel voice surprised me now; But Mopsa, her Too-whit, Too-whoo, Descending through her oboe nose, Did that distemper soon compose. And, therefore, O thou precious owl, The wise Minerva’s only fowl; What, at thy shrine, shall I devise To offer up a sacrifice? Hang Æsculapius, and Apollo, And Ovid, with his precious shallow. Mopsa is love’s best medicine, True water to a lover’s wine. Nay, she’s the yellow antidote, Both bred and born to cut Love’s throat: Be but my second, and stand by, Mopsa, and I’ll them both defy; And all else of those gallant races, Who wear infection in their faces; For thy face (that Medusa’s shield!) Will bring me safe out of the field. VERSES. _To the tune of the Spanish song_, “_Si tu señora no ducles de mi_.” O FAIR! O sweet! when I do look on thee, In whom all joys so well agree, Heart and soul do sing in me. This you hear is not my tongue, Which once said what I conceived; For it was of use bereaved, With a cruel answer stung. No! though tongue to roof be cleaved, Fearing lest he chastised be, Heart and soul do sing in me. O fair! O sweet! when I do look on thee, In whom all joys so well agree, Just accord all music makes; In thee just accord excelleth, Where each part in such peace dwelleth, One of other beauty takes. Since then truth to all minds telleth, That in thee lives harmony, Heart and soul do sing in me.