|
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-] |