By those bright eyes, at whose immortal fires
Love lights his torches to inflame desires;
By that fair stand, your forehead, whence he bends
His double bow, and round his arrows sends;
By that tan grove, your hair, whose globy rings 5
He flying curls, and crispeth with his wings;
By those pure baths your either cheek discloses,
Where he doth steep himself in milk and roses;
And lastly, by your lips, the bank of kisses,
Where men at once may plant and gather blisses: 10
Ten me, my lov’d friend, do you love or no?
So well as I may tell in verse, ’tis so?
You blush, but do not:--friends are either none,
Though they may number bodies, or but one.
I’ll therefore ask no more, but bid you love, 15
And so that either may example prove
Unto the other; and live patterns, how
Others, in time, may love as we do now.
Slip no occasion; as time stands not still,
I know no beauty, nor no youth that will. 20
To use the present, then, is not abuse,
You have a husband is the just excuse
Of all that can be done him; such a one
As would make shift to make himself alone
That which we can; who both in you, his wife, 25
His issue, and all circumstance of life,
As in his place, because he would not vary,
Is constant to be extraordinary.
THE GIPSIES METAMORPHOSED
_The Lady Purbeck’s Fortune, by the_
_Gip._ Help me, wonder, here’s a book, 2
Where I would for ever look:
Never yet did gipsy trace
Smoother lines in hands or face:
Venus here doth Saturn move 5
That you should be Queen of Love;
And the other stars consent;
Only Cupid’s not content;
For though you the theft disguise,
You have robb’d him of his eyes. 10
And to shew his envy further:
Here he chargeth you with murther:
Says, although that at your sight,
He must all his torches light;
Though your either cheek discloses 15
Mingled baths of milk and roses;
Though your lips be banks of blisses,
Where he plants, and gathers kisses;
And yourself the reason why,
Wisest men for love may die; 20
You will turn all hearts to tinder,
And shall make the world one cinder.
_From_
A CHALLENGE AT TILT,
AT A MARRIAGE.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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