Thy only wisdom is to slight her,
And her beauty discommend.
Such a niceness will requite her:

Yet, if thy love will not end,

Love thyself and friend.

LOVE'S ANARCHY.

LOVE, I must tell thee, I'll no longer be
A victim to thy beardless deity:

Nor shall this heart of mine,

Now 'tis return'd,

Be offer'd at thy shrine,

Or at thine altar burn'd.

Love, like religion, 's made an airy name,
To awe those fools whom want of wit makes tame.

There's no such thing as quiver, shafts, or bow,
Nor does love wound, but men imagine so.

Or if it does perplex

And grieve the mind,

'Tis the poor masculine sex:

Women no sorrows find.

'Tis not our persons, nor our parts, can move 'em, Nor is't men's worth, but wealth, makes ladies love

'em.

Reason, henceforth, not love, shall be my guide,
My fellow-creatures shan't be deified;

I'll now a rebel be,

And so pull down

That distaff-monarchy,

And females' fancy'd crown.

In these unbridled times who would not strive To free his neck from all prerogative?

ON CLARET.

WITHIN this bottle's to be seen
A scarlet liquor, that has been
Born of the royal vine :

We but nick-name it, when we call
It gods' drink, who drink none at all,
No higher name than wine.

'Tis ladies' liquor: here one might
Feast both his eye and appetite
With beauty and with taste,
Cherries and roses, which you seek
Upon your mistress' lip and cheek,
Are here together plac'd.

Physicians may prescribe their whey,
To purge our reins and brains away,
And clarify the blood;

That cures one sickness with another,
This routs by wholesale altogether,
And drowns them in a flood.

This poets makes, else how could I
Thus ramble into poetry,

Nay, and write sonnets too;

If there's such pow'r in junior wines,
To make one venture upon lines,
What could Canary do:

Then squeeze the vessel's bowels out,
And deal it faithfully about,

Crown each hand with a brimmer;
Since we're to pass through this red sea,
Our noses shall our pilots be,
And every soul a swimmer.

LOVE'S WITHOUT REASON.

'Tis not my lady's face that makes me love her, Though beauty there doth rest,

Enough t' inflame the breast Of one, that never did discover

The glories of a face before;

But I, that have seen thousands more, See nought in hers but what in others are, Only because I think she's fair, she's fair.

"Tis not her virtues, nor those vast perfections, That crowd together in her,

Engage my soul to win her,

For those are only brief collections

Of what's in man in folio writ;
Which, by their imitative wit,

Women, like apes and children, strive to do;
But we that have the substance slight the show.

'Tis not her birth, her friends, nor yet her treasure, My freeborn soul can hold;

For chains are chains, though gold:

Nor do I court her for my pleasure,
Nor for that old morality

Do I love her, 'cause she loves me :

For that's no love, but gratitude, and all

Loves, that from fortunes rise, with fortunes fall.

If friends or birth created love within me,

Then princes I'll adore,

And only scorn the poor:
If virtue or good parts could win me,
I'd turn Platonic, and ne'er vex

My soul with difference of sex;

And he that loves his lady 'cause she's fair,
Delights his eye, so loves himself, not her.

Reason and wisdom are to love high treason;
Nor can he truly love,

Whose flame's not far above,
And far beyond his wit or reason;

Then ask no reason for my fires,

For infinite are my desires.

Something there is moves me to love, and I Do know I love, but know not how, nor why.

ADVICE TO CELIA.

My lovely Celia, whilst thou dost enjoy
Beauty and youth, be sure to use 'em,
And be not fickle, be not coy,
Thyself or lovers to destroy.

Since all those lilies and those roses,
Which lovers find, or love supposes,
To flourish in thy face,

Will tarry but a little space.

And youth and beauty are but only lent
To you by Nature, with this good intent,

You should enjoy, but not abuse 'em,

And when enjoyments may be had, not fondly to refuse 'em.

Let lovers' flatt'ry ne'er prevail with thee;
Nor their old compliments deceive thee,
Their vows and protestations be

Too often mere hypocrisy.

And those high praises of the witty
May all be costly, but not fit ye,
Or if it true should be

Now what thy lovers say of thee,
Sickness or age will quickly strip away
Those fading glories of thy youthful May,
And of thy graces all bereave thee:

Then those that thee ador'd before will slight thee, and so leave thee.

Then while thou'rt fair and young, be kind, but wise, Doat not, nor proudly use denying;

That tempting toy thy beauty lies,

Not in thy face, but lovers' eyes.

And he that doats on thee may smother
His love, i'th' beauty of another,
Or flying at all game

May quench, or else divert his flame.
His reason too may chance to interpose,
And love declines as fast as reason grows.
There is a knack to find love's treasures:
Too young, too old, too nice, too free, too slow,
destroys your pleasures.