|
| Mum̄y. |
|
| Some that haue deeper diggd Loues mine then I |
| say where his Centrique happinesse doth lye |
| I have lov'd, and gott, and told |
| But should I loue, gett, tell, till I were old |
| I should not find that hidden mystery. |
| Oh tis Imposture all |
| And as no Chymick yet th' Elixar got |
| But glorifies his pregnant pott |
| If, by the way, to him befall |
| Some odoriferous thing or medcinall |
| So Louers dreame a rich and long delight |
| But get a winter seeming sum̄ers night |
|
| Our ease, our Thrift, our Honor and our daye |
| Shall wee for this vayne shadowes bubble pay? |
| Ends loue in this, that my Man |
| Can bee as happy as I can, if hee can |
| Endure the short scorne of a Bridegromes play? |
| That louing wretch that sweares |
| Tis not the bodyes marry, but the mindes |
| Wch hee in her Angelique findes |
| Would sweare as iustly that hee heares |
| In that dayes rude hoarse Minstrelsy, the Spheares |
| Hope not for mind in woman, at theyr best |
| Sweetnesse and witt, th'are but Mum̄y possest
|
[CW: Blasted.] |