 | Poems by Matthew Stevenson |  |
90
Love, blind, or not Blind?
1
What makes You think that Love is blind,Since he dwells in the eye?
I rather the contrary find
In all my scrutiny.
For I, in Love had never been,
Had not mine eyes the Object seen.
2
And all the World in this agreeLove is a flaming fire:
If then a fire, nay flame it be?
What need we more desire
To prove that Love may have his sight,
From that which renders all things light.
3
Tell me not that Obfusca wasBorn blind, and Lov'd on trust.
Admit the fable, yet, alas,
It was not Love, but Lust.
For she must have it understood,
Though nothing else, her feeling's good.
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4
But You will say where stood his eyesThat chose so course a Wench
As Bab, since Men meet such a prize
On every common Bench?
This will be his retort again,
What's one Man's meat's anothers bane.
5
Here's one a Horse Face courts, whose weightHe knows will come in Gold,
And, so he have the mony strait,
Let her be crooked, old,
Splay-foot, blind, beetle-brow'd, and lame,
For he has that, for which he came.
6
Turn but Your eye, and You shall seeAnothers Fingers itch
To be embracing such a she
Is neither Fair, nor Rich:
Ask but his reason, and 'tis this
My mind to me a Kingdom is.
7
Thus one loves Fat, another lean,This his Meat salt, that fresh,
This a fat Capon, that a Hen,
This Man loves Fish, that Flesh,
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Here's the good man that kiss'd his Cow.
8
Who bears the fault, now, but the Boy,The wanton Boy forsooth?
He with Old Women use to toy,
And teach them tricks of Youth.
Thus from our selves we still remove
Our dotage to the God of Love.
9
Whom falsely fools call ProgenyOf Vulcan God of fire,
If it were so? then he must be
Prodromus to his Sire.
For out of doubt he Love did know,
E're he came into Cuckolds row.
10
Then, let not hallow'd Love bear blame,For humane fantasie,
Love is a pure Celestial flame,
Heaven and Earth's Mercury
Diffus'd on Mortals; let us hence
Accuse the Organ, not the influence.
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11
Can any yet be so unwiseTo think Love-blind, that can
Create an Argus hundred eyes,
To guard a Curtesan?
Whom, if You please, you may espy
Enthron'd in every sparkling eye.
12
Pray, which of You can shoot so rightAs he, whom You call Blind?
He sticks his Arrows in the white,
Sure then he eyes must find.
Should You a Dart at any throw,
'Twere like the blind man at the Crow.
13
Ye are surpriz'd with each fair Face,With every dimpled chin,
This comely feature, that sweet Grace
Are Snares to trap ye in.
What think ye then? not Love I wiss,
But ye are Capti oculis.
| Poems by Matthew Stevenson | |