Thus _Mahomet_ blinds her with _Cupids_ vaile, And this new conuertite building on hope, Loue makes folks hardy, alas the flesh is fraile, Dispences now a little with the Pope: And fr[=o] restrictions giues her heart more scope. O Liberty, Author of heresie. Why with such violent wing dost thou assaile, To hurry vertue to impiety. 62 No pardon will she now implore of _Rome_, Her selfe she pardons twenty times an houre, Nor yet an heretike her selfe doth doome, Since she hath _Mahomet_ within her power. O loue too sweet, in the digestion sower! Yet was he made, as nature had agreed, To match them both together from her wombe, And be a ioyfull grandam in their seed. 63 A face Nature intended for a maister peece, And louely as the maide (though a blacke pearle) Painters and women say, an _Eben_ fleece, Doth well beseeme the shoulders of an Earle: Blacke snares they were, that did entrap this girle Each haire like to a subtile serpent taught her, Of the forbidden fruit to taste a peece, Whil'st _Eue_ is stain'd againe here in her daughter. 64 His eyes were stuck like Comets in his head, As if they came to treate of nouelties, And bring the world and beautie into dread: That he must conquer chastest chastities. O who such tempting graces could despise, All voluntarie sinnes soules may refraine, But Natures selfe that of the flesh is bred, Such power she hath, that vice she will retaine. 65 Let me, faire Greeke, a little plead for thee, Like a vaine Orator, more for applause, And swolne commends, of those are standers by, Then profits sake, or goodnesse of the cause. If men that vpon holy vowes do pawse, Haue broke, alas, what shall I say of these, The last thing thought on by the Deitie, Natures step-children, rather her disease. 66 Maide, why commit you wilfull periurie? To you I speake that vowe a single life, I must confesse y'are mistresse of beauty: Which beautie with your oaths is still at strife. Then know of me, thou, widow, maide or wife, She that is faire and vowes still chast to stand, Shall find an opposite to constancie, Fooles Oracles last not, are writ in sand. _The end of the first Tome._ TO THE PERFECTION OF Perfection, and wisedome of Womanhood, the intelligent, and worthily admired, Elizabeth Countesse of Darby, wife to the thrice-noble William Earle _of Darby_.