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Oh, 'tis imposture all:
And as no chymique yet th'Elixar got,
But glorifies his pregnant pot,
If by the way to him befall
Some odoriferous thing, or medicinall,
So, lovers dreame a rich and long delight,
But get a winter-seeming summers night.
Our ease, our thrift, our honor, and our day,
Shall we, for this vaine Bubles* pay?
Ends love in this, that my man
Can be as happy'as I can; If he can
Endure the short scorne of a Bridegroomes play?
That loving wretch that sweares,
'Tis not the bodies marry, but the mindes,
Which he in her Angelique findes,
Would feare us justly that he heares,
In that dayes rude hoarse minstralsey, the spheares,*
Hope not for minde in women; at their best,
Sweetnesse, & wit they'are, but, Mummy, possest.
The Curse.
Who ever guesses, thinkes, or dreams, he knows
Who is my Mistris, wither by this curse;
His onely, and onely his purse
May some dull heart to love dispose,
And she yeeld then to all that are his foes:
May he be scorn'd by one, whom all else scorne,

[CW: For-]