 | Ayres, and dialogues |  |
9
To his Platonick Mistris.
[I]
Beauty once blasted with the frostOf Age or Sickness, is quite lost;
He who loves that, and on it can,
Dote till he be no longer Man,
Hath neither Intellect or Eyes
To judge where womans beauty lies:
No, let him court your better part,
Your virtues and your loyal heart.
II
If nought but beauty in you be,Your Picture seems as fair to me;
He that admires your red and white,
Is Traytor to his own delight;
And with those shadows growes so blind
He never can your sweetnesse find.
Then let me court your better part,
Your vertues, and your loyall heart.
III
Yet do I never hope to seeGoodnesse lodg'd in deformitie;
Though devils oft take shapes divine,
Angels take none but such as thine;
This made me make my choice of thee
The emblem of divinitie;
That I might court your better part,
Your vertues, and your loyal heart.
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