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To the proud M.
 
 
 
 


72

To the proud M.

Proud woman, know I am above
As much thy anger as thy love:
I did once think thou hadst a face;
But when next thou tak'st thy glasse,
If thou canst see through so much paint,
Pray to thy owne; no more my Saint;
Thy eyes, those glouring twinnes, shall be
No more misleading fires to me;
Nor hope they shall continue bright,
For I will curse out all their light:
But this would shew that I were vext,
And so thy Tryimph might be next
That thou should'st force me into rage:
No, I will laugh thee into age,
Strike wrinkles on thy brow, and not
Discompose my pleasant thought,
Till thou, thy Witches face despise,
And grow angry with their eyes,
Thus wretched thou shalt wish to die,
But late obtain it; and when I
Have jeerd thee into dead and rotten,
Ile throw thee into quite forgotten.