The Muses Melody in a Consort Of Poetry With Diverse occasionall and Compendious Epistles. Composed by the Author Tho. Jordan |
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To a Black-moor that had married a deformed Spanish
woman, and was jealous of an English Gentleman.
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 | The Muses Melody in a Consort Of Poetry |  |
To a Black-moor that had married a deformed Spanish woman, and was jealous of an English Gentleman.
Black Don de Negro fears that I will beA sharer in his sooty Venery:
He doth believe that in his absence I
Invoke his devil to Adultery;
When (Heaven knows) 'tis such a Creature, none
But one that doubts the Resurrection
Would meddle with; a face Men flye in drink,
Whose eys are Torches, and whose veins run Ink
A thing that sure some Succubus hath nursed,
And onely waits the hour of Go ye cursed.
Yet this strange muddy medly of things horrid,
Makes Don doubt horns upon his woollen forhead;
And I must be the object of his doubt,
I tell thee Don, and all thy sable rout,
Thou fear'st in vain; I would not (I protest)
Add one pin feather to thy Magpies nest
For both the Indies: many (by this light)
Have been undone onely with black and white:
Besides, he is betray'd by self-deceivings,
That takes an armful of the devils leavings.
Dost think I'll deal in Charcole? smack a smother?
And dig in one hell to deserve another?
Or will I leave my lovely Polihynie
With all her Virgin sweets, to sweep thy Chymnie?
Dost think I'll line thy Buckrum with my Tissue?
And contribute unto thy checquer'd Issue?
With a strip'd stripling arm'd in Tortoise shells?
And in a time where Reformation hath
Made Venery as venial as the Bath?
Dost think I'll have my Heyr look like a Leper?
Like Snow and Gunpowder? or Salt and Pepper?
I hate that hand of Cards, where he that rubbs
Hath nothing dealt him but the ten of Clubbs.
Shall I pollute my Limbs with an embrace
For a py'd Kitling with a dappled face?
A Cradle full of twylight? print and Margent?
A Coat parte-per-fess, sable and argent?
A speckled spawn? joy twisted with disaster?
Or jert concorporate with Alabaster?
Forbear thy frantick follies, thou mayst be
Sooner perswaded I could bed with thee.
Can thy ambitious fears think any one
Would taste of that which thou hast blown upon?
Decline these doubts: when ever I accost her
With a conjunctive generating posture,
The pregnant womb of Wolves shall bring forth Lambe,
The robbing Rat teem Kitlings, the wild dams
Of rocking Bears shall (against Natures Lawes)
Embrace the doggs with titilating Pawes.
When we do mixe in a venereal sheet,
The late dead King and Parliament shall meet
In Westminster; Religion shall controul
The lofty longings of a States-mans Soul.
| The Muses Melody in a Consort Of Poetry | |