|
| Are not your kisses then as filthy, and more, |
| As a worm sucking an invenom'd sore? |
| Doth not thy fearful hand in feeling quake, |
| As one which gathering flowers, still feares a snake? |
| Is not your last act harsh, and violent, |
| As when a plough a stony ground doth rent? |
| So kiss good turtles, so devoutly nice |
| A Priest is in his handling Sacrifice, |
| And nice in searching wounds the Surgeon is, |
| As we, when we embrace, or touch, or kiss, |
| Leave her, and I will leave comparing thus, |
| Shee and comparisons are odious. |
|
| Elegie. IX. |
|
| No Spring, nor Summers beauty hath such grace, |
| As I have seen in one Autumnal face, |
| Young Beauties force our Loves, and that's a Rape, |
| This doth but counsail, yet you cannot scape. |
| If 'twere a shame to love, here 'twere no shame: |
| Affections here take Reverences name. |
| Were her first years the Golden age; that's true. |
| But now she's gold oft try'd, and ever new. |
| That was her torrid and inflaming time, |
| This is her habitable Tropique clime. |
| Fair eyes, who askes more heat than comes from hence. |
| He in a feaver wishes pestilence. |
| Call not these wrinkles, graves: If graves they were |
| They were Loves graves: or else he is no where. |
| Yet lies not Love dead here, but here doth sit |
| Vow'd to this trench, like an Anachorit. |
| And here, till hers, which must be his death, come, |
| He doth not dig a grave, but build a Tomb.
|
[CW: Here] |