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To a timorously willing Mistress.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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To a timorously willing Mistress.

Like Summer bringing in a Dearth,
or Beauty blasted in its Birth;
Such is thy Love to me, that fils
but expectation 'till it kils.

81

Thy Smiles no sooner warm my Heart,
but Frowns dart Death through ev'ry part,
And the choice pleasure of thine eyes
invite me but to Tantalize.
When thirsty Grief desires to sip
Life from the Cherries of thy lip;
The Root of Life by which they grow,
declares my Death by answering No.
Nor can I guess why it hath bin,
unlesse to love be held a sin;
If so, the Gods themselves must be
in such a sort as deep as We.
Oh think not (Dearest) 'tis in vain
to hope for pleasure without pain:
Whil'st equal Love and Joys attend us,
Both Faith and Silence shall befriend us.
Could'st thou my Heart Anatomize,
wherein thy perfect Figure lies,
There should'st thou find what neither Fate
nor envious Time shall violate,
Such Constant Truth my Love doth bear,
in all thy Fortunes I will share;
And of each Misery will boast,
wherein my self shall suffer most.

82

Thus dare I boast my Love to thee,
beyond our frail Humanity:
For he whose Love transcendeth mine,
must not write Mortal, but Divine.
And should thy Cruelty extend
this loathed Life of mine to end,
Th' Arabian wonder shall not die
more glorious in her Flames than I.