|
| To'our bodies turne wee then, that so |
| Weake men on love reveal'd may looke; |
| Loves mysteries in soules doe grow, |
| But yet the body is his booke. |
| And if some lover, such as wee, |
| Have heard this dialogue of one, |
| Let him still marke us, he shall see |
| Small change, when we'are to bodies gone. |
|
| Loves Deitie. |
|
| I long to talke with some old lovers ghost, |
| Who dyed before the god of Love was borne: |
| I cannot thinke that hee, who then lov'd most, |
| Sunke so low, as to love one which did scorne. |
| But since this god produc'd a destinie, |
| And that vice-nature, custome, lets it be; |
| I must love her, that loves not mee. |
|
| 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. Correspondencie |
| Only his subject was; It cannot bee |
| Love, till I love her, that loves mee. |
|
| But every moderne god will now extend |
| His vast prerogative, as far as Jove. |
| To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend,
|
[CW: All] |