|
| Nor can you more judge womens thoughts by tears, |
| Then by her shadow, what she wears. |
| O perverse sex, where none is true but she, |
| Who's therefore true because her truth kils me. |
|
| Valediction to his Book. |
|
| I'll tell thee now (dear Love) what thou shalt do |
| To anger destiny, as she doth us. |
| How I shall stay, though she eloigne me thus, |
| And how posterity shall know it too, |
| How thine may out endure |
| Sibyls glory, and obscure |
| Her who from Pindar could allure, |
| And her, through whose help Lucan is not lame, |
| And her, whose book (they say) Homer did find, and name, |
|
| Study our manuscripts, those Myriades |
| Of letters, which have past 'twixt thee and me, |
| Thence write our Annals, and in them will be. |
| To all whom loves subliming fire invades, |
| Rule and example found; |
| There, the faith of any ground |
| No Schismatique will dare to wound, |
| That sees, how Love this grace to us affords, |
| To make, to keep, to use, to be these his Records. |
|
| This book as long liv'd as the elements, |
| Or as the worlds forme, this all-graved Tomb. |
| In cypher writ, or new made Idiome; |
| We for Loves Clergie only'are instruments, |
| When this book is made thus, |
| Should again the ravenous |
| Vandals and Goths invade us.
|
[CW: Learning] |