 | Reliquiae Wottonianae |  |
A Poem written by Sir Henry Wotton, in his youth.
O faithless World, and thy more faithless part,a womans heart!
The true shop of variety, where sits
nothing but fits
And feavers of desire, and pangs of love,
which toyes remove.
Why was she born to please, or I to trust
words writ in dust?
Suffering her Eys to govern my dispair,
my pain for air;
And fruit of time rewarded with untruth,
the food of youth.
Untrue she was: yet, I believ'd her eyes
(instructed spies)
Till I was taught, that Love was but a school
to breed a fool.
Or sought she more by triumphs of denial,
to make a trial
How far her smiles commanded my weakness?
yeeld and confess,
Excuse no more thy folly; but for Cure,
blush and indure
As well thy shame, as passions that were vain:
and think, 'tis gain
To know, that Love lodg'd in a womans brest,
Is but a guest.
H. W.
| Reliquiae Wottonianae | |