 | Lucasta |  |
Her Muffe.
1
'Twas not for some calm blessing to deceive,Thou didst thy polish'd hands in shagg'd furs weave,
It were no blessing thus obtain'd,
Thou rather would'st a curse have gain'd,
Then let thy warm driven snow be ever stain'd.
2
Not that you feared the discolo'ring cold,Might alchymize their Silver into Gold;
Nor could your ten white Nuns so sin,
That you should thus pennance them in
Each in her course hair smock of Discipline.
3
Not Hero-like, who on their crest still woreA Lyon, Panther, Leopard or a Bore;
8
Thou would'st thy hand should deeper pierce,
And, in its softness rough, appear more fierce.
4
No, no, Lucasta, destiny DecreedThat Beasts to thee a sacrifice should bleed,
And strip themselves to make you gay;
For ne'r yet Herald did display,
A Coat, where Sables upon Ermin lay.
5
This for Lay-Lovers, that must stand at dore,Salute the threshold, and admire no more:
But I, in my Invention tough,
Rate not this outward bliss enough,
But still contemplate must the hidden Muffe.
| Lucasta | |