|
| But that it first imprints the ayre, |
| For soule into the soule may flow, |
| Though it to body first repaire. |
| As our blood labours to beget |
| Spirits, as like soules as it can, |
| Because such fingers need to knit |
| That subtle knot, which make us man: |
| So must pure lovers soules descend |
| T'affections, and to faculties, |
| Which sense may reach and apprehend, |
| Else a great Prince in prison lies. |
| To 'our bodies turne we 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 growne. |
|
| Loves Deitie. |
|
| I long to talke with some old lovers ghost, |
| Who dyed before the god of Love was borne: |
| I cannot thinke that he, who then lov'd most, |
| Sunke so low, as to love one which did scorne. |
| But since this god produc'd a destiny, |
| And that vice-nature, custome, lets it bee; |
| I must love her that loves not me.
|
[CW: Sure,] |