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You have honours, you have wealth,
Bound to none my fortunes be;
This or that man's fall I fear not;
You are sad when others chafe,
Wantons ! 'tis not your sweet eyings,
Beauties ! 'tis not all those features Placed in the fairest creatures, Though their best they should discover, That can tempt, from her, a lover. 'Tis not those soft snowy breasts, Where love, rock'd in pleasure, rests ; Nor the nectar that we sip From a honey-dropping lip; Nor those eyes whence beauty's lances Wound the heart with wanton glances ; Nor those sought delights, that lie In love's hidden treasury, That can liking gain, where she Will the best-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; Practise all the art they may, Weep, or sing, or kiss, or pray ;One poor thought of her would arm me So as Circe could not harm me. Since, beside those excellencies, Wherewith others please the senses, She, whom I have praised so, Yields delights for reason too,
Who could doat on thing so common,
[Abridged from 18 stanzas.]
Hail! thou fairest of all creatures
Upon whom the sun doth shine; Model of all rarest features, .
And perfections most divine: Thrice, all hail! and blessed be Those that love and honour thee.;
Though a stranger to the Muses,
Young, obscured, and despis’d, Yet, such art thy love infuses,
That I thus have poetiz’d. Read, and be content to see : Thy admired power in me..
On this glass of thy perfection
If that any women pry,
To adorn themselves thereby:
This thy picture, therefore show I,
Naked, unto every eye;
Neither touch of jealousy;
I am no Italian lover,
That will mew thee in a jail ;
English-like, without a veil.
Yet in this thou may’st believe me,
(So indifferent though I seem) Death with tortures would not grieve me
More, than loss of thy esteem.
Then, as I, on thee relying,
Do no changing fear in thee, So, by my defects supplying,
From all changing keep thou me: That unmatched we may prove, Thou, for beauty ; I, for love.
(Abridged from 12 stanzas.] SAD eyes, what do you ail,
To be thus ill-disposed ? Why doth your sleeping fail,
Now all men's else are closed ?
In any servile duty,
A slave to love and beauty?
What hopes have I, that she
Will hold her favours ever, When so few women be
That constant can persever? Whate'er she do protest,
When fortunes do deceive me, Then she, with all the rest,
I fear, alas! will leave me.-