|
So must pure lovers souls descend |
T'affections, and to faculties, |
Which sence may reach and apprehend, |
Else a great Prince in prison lies, |
To our bodies turn we then, that so |
Weak men on love reveal'd may look; |
Loves mysteries in Souls do grow, |
But yet the body is the book, |
And if some lover such as we, |
Have heard this dialogue of one, |
Let him still mark us, he shall see |
Small change when we are to bodies grown. |
|
Loves Deity. |
|
I long to talk with some old lovers ghost, |
Who dyed before the god of Love was born: |
I cannot think that he, who then lov'd most, |
Sunk so low, as to love one which did scorn. |
But since this god produc'd a destiny, |
And that vice-nature custom lets it be; |
I must love her that loves not me. |
|
Sure they, which made him god, meant not so much, |
Nor he, in his young godhead practis'd it. |
But when an even flame two hearts did touch, |
His office was indulgently to fit |
Actives to Passives, Correspondency |
Only his Subject was; it cannot be |
Love, till I love her that loves me. |
|
But every modern god will now extend |
His vast prerogative as far as Jove,
|
[CW: To] |