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142
To A.D. unreasonable distrustfull of her owne beauty.
Fayre Doris breake thy Glasse, it hath perplextWith a darke Comment, beauties clearest Text,
It hath not told thy faces story true,
But brought false Copies to thy jealous view.
No colour, feature, lovely ayre, or grace,
That ever yet adorn'd a beauteous face,
But thou maist reade in thine, or justly doubt
Thy Glasse hath beene suborn'd to leave it out,
But if it offer to thy nice survey
A spot, a staine, a blemish, or decay,
It not belongs to thee, the treacherous light
Or faithlesse stone abuse thy credulous sight.
Perhaps the magique of thy face, hath wrought
Vpon th'enchanted Crystall, and so brought
Fantasticke shadowes to delude thine eyes
With ayrie repercussive sorceries.
Or else th'enamoured Image pines away
For love of the fayre Object, and so may
Waxe pale and wan, and though the substance grow
Lively and fresh, that may consume with woe;
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But let thy beauties by th'effects be knowne:
Looke (sweetest Doris) on my love-sick heart,
In that true mirrour see how fayre thou art.
There, by Loves never-erring Pensill drawne
Shalt thou behold thy face, like th'early dawne
Shoot through the shadie covert of thy hayre,
Enameling, and perfuming the calme Ayre
With Pearles, and Roses, till thy Suns display
Their lids, and let out the imprison'd day.
Whilst Delfique Priests, (enlightned by their Theame)
In amorous numbers count thy golden beame,
And from Loves Altars cloudes of sighes arise
In smoaking Incence to adore thine eyes.
If then Love flow from Beautie as th'effect
How canst thou the resistlesse cause suspect?
Who would not brand that Foole, that should contend
There were no fire, where smoke and flames ascend?
Distrust is worse then scorne, not to beleeve
My harmes, is greater wrong then not to grieve;
What cure can for my festring sore be found,
Whilst thou beleev'st thy beautie cannot wound?
Such humble thoughts more cruell Tyrants prove
Then all the pride that e're usurp'd in Love,
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There her false spies betray me to a snare.
If fire disguis'd in balls of snow were hurl'd
It unsuspected might consume the world;
Where our prevention ends, danger begins,
So Wolves in Sheepes, Lyons in Asses skins,
Might farre more mischiefe worke, because lesse fear'd
Those, the whole flock, these, might kill all the herd,
Appeare then as thou art, break through this cloude
Confesse thy beauty, though thou thence grow proud,
Be faire though scornfull, rather let me find
Thee cruell, then thus mild, and more unkind;
Thy crueltie doth only me defie,
But these dull thoughts thee to thy selfe denie.
Whether thou meane to bartar, or bestow
Thyselfe; 'tis fit thou thine owne valew know?
I will not cheate thee of thy selfe, nor pay
Lesse for thee then th'art worth, thou shalt not say
That is but brittle glasse, which I have found
By strict enquirie a firme Diamond.
I'le trade with no such Indian foole as sells
Gold, Pearles, and pretious stones, for Beads and Bells
Nor will I take a present from your hand,
Which you or prize not, or not understand;
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Esteeme your gift, unlesse you doe so too;
You undervalew me, when you bestow
On me, what you nor care for, nor yet know.
No (Lovely Doris) change thy thoughts, and be
In love first with thy selfe, and then with me.
You are afflicted that you are not faire,
And I as much tormented that you are,
What I admire, you scorne; what I love, hate,
Through different faiths, both share an equall Fate,
Fast to the truth, which you renounce, I stick,
I dye a Martyr, you an Heretique.
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