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To the Lady, M. W.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

To the Lady, M. W.

So does the Body, when the Soul has gon,
And pawn'd him, till the Resurrection,
Re-greet each other, as I salute You,
Who art my Life, my Light and Glory too.
But oh! what torments do those Lovers prove,
That find their Service, ill repai'd with love?
And must I be oth' Number? can there be,
A Loving Soul that more can Honour Thee?
Thou art my Fancy's Idol, and hast won
My Soul, unto a Superstition,
That never needs Repentance; I dare dye,
A ready Martyr, to thy Diety:

187

And was there ever Saint so Tyraniz'd
To fire that Altar, where She's idoliz'd?
But I'me a Yonger Brother, not born high,
I would be Nothing, so I were not I:
Ah! shall not well-stampt Love go currant, where
Unlucky Fortune, hath deny'd a share?
But when two Souls together Match we do,
Must there be made a Match of money too?
Let not our Friends controule our Loves, wee'l prove
Dead, to Obedience, so we live to love;
Though 'tis acknowledg'd that your worth alone,
Might make a Kingdom proud of such a one
None can dislike our Loves, for here's the odds
When Men make Others Lovers, Us the Gods.
Then be as Kind, as Beauteous and turn all
My former Plagues, into a Cordiall
And may thy Body, nere my Purchase be
If ere my Soul prevaricate from thee! mov'd,
Then (Dearest) speak my Life, with Pitty
Or bid me Dye, because I over-Lov'd.