Amanda A Sacrifice To an Unknown Goddesse, or, A Free-Will Offering Of a loving Heart to a Sweet-Heart. By N. H. [i.e. Nicholas Hookes] |
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Against Platonick Court-Love.
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 | Amanda |  |
Against Platonick Court-Love.
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No greater comfort to well-minded men,Then 'tis to love and be belov'd agen:
And this sweet love hath goodnesse for its mother,
On which one love doth still beget another;
Though beautie nourish love, and make it grow,
Love feeds on other food,
Which is as pleasant, and as highly good;
From other richer sweeter springs doth flow.
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Love several cells i'th' wombe, and Cradles hath,To breed and rock, it's Cupids in; the path
Wherein, with close desire it doth pursue,
The started object may be divers too;
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And ever meet in this:
What e're their feigned speech and progresse is,
All i'th' same sent do hunt and follow it.
3
Loves of one rise, ne're differ in their end,What ever Lovers in their love pretend,
Making blinde Cupid nothing else but eye,
'Tis counterfeit, false, cheating modestie,
Whil'st superficial beauty strikes the eyes
The Consort heart-strings move,
And play, within a tempting fit of love
To ev'ry sense; love it self multiplies.
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'Tis of a spreading nature, not contentTo be at stands, till all its strength be spent;
It is a pleasant itch, infects the blood,
Still gathers heat, whilst it receives its food;
It cannot rest i'th' eye, the senses do
Mingle joyes, what e're we see
And like, if sweet and edible it be,
Surely, we have some minde to eate it too.
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'Tis true, I know sometimes we use to play,With fruit that's pleasing to the eye, and say,
'Tis pittie troth to eat them, they're so faire,
So often keep them till they rotten are,
Yet the teeth water while they rotting lie;
But love provides for you
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Cloy th'appetite, and after feast your eye.
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Is Admiration love? 'tis nothing so,'Tis but loves Herauld, which before doth go
To usher in that Regent Queen to th'heart,
Its Palace-royal; only acts the part
Of loves Scenographer, to pitch the tent
In that Elysian field,
Where it encamps; the Ensigne who doth wield
And flourish beauties flags of ornament.
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Platonick love! 'tis monstrous heresie,Would scare an Adamite, in's innocencie:
No Eunuch holds it, but where e're he likes
And loves the bait, at least in wish he strikes;
And curses him that blanch't him so; the Nun
When she can please her eye,
Though her vow curb her thoughts, yet happily
She wishes all that might be done, were done.
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Platonick love. if love it call'd may be,Is nothing else but lust in 'ts infancie;
Lust in the wombe of thought, which stayes not there,
(If thought miscarry not through startling fear,)
But comes abroad and lives, doth act and move
To reach its centre-end;
And in the birth, (both which the childe commend,)
Fancie is Midwife, Beauty Nurse to Love.
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Love only plac't in Admiration!Complacencie in Contemplation!
Love and no Cupid! It can never be,
To fancie beautie is thoughts venerie:
'Tis new-borne childish lust, which puling lies,
Like th' babe more innocent
I'th' Cradle then the standing stool, where pent
It gads, and at each pleasing object flies.
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Love flowes like time, our motions cause and measure;What's past is lost; the life of all our pleasure,
Is in our present instant joy; but yet
As thoughts of past injoyments do beget
New hopes, and those new hopes get new desire,
Which differs not, but is all one
With lustful love and fond devotion,
So last nights sparks kindle the morning fire.
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Nor doth a glance only a glance beget,One lookes gets love, the next doth nourish it,
And so the next, and next, and th' other doth,
Till it attain and rise to 'ts perfect growth:
I must confesse love may be starv'd, or fed
With dazie roots or so,
But let it take its course, 'twill surely grow
To flames, and though't must lose its maiden-head.
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If beauty do but once inslave the eyes,It straight takes captive all the faculties;
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Wishing the object would allow each guest
The dish it liketh most, it would employ
(If nothing hinder from without)
Contrive, and lay its utmostpowers out
T' enrich it selfe with loves most wealthie joy.
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Affection is not fed to please one sense,'Tis ne're maintained at so high expence
Of spirits, to so small and poor intents,
As t' have a thing to please with complements:
In such love-masques, what e're we speak or do,
Surely there is some promise made
[Which hopes and fancie easily perswade]
That we shall please our other senses too.
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That love Camelion-like can live by aireOf womens breath, without some better fare;
That man can love, and yet confine his blisse
To th' outside kickshaw pleasure of a kisse,
Nay, be surpriz'd with such thin joyes as these,
And like them too; yet wish no more,
Platonick love! Say Plato kept a whore,
And lost his smell-smock nose by th' French disease.
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Well my Amanda, 'tis no glance o'th eyeI court thee for, that will not satisfie;
'Tis not the pretty babies there I praise,
As if to love were nothing but to gaze;
No, guesse the best; that love what e're it be
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And without smoke, if it be any where;
'Tis, 'tis Amanda betwixt thee and me.
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