Pierides or The Muses Mount. By Hugh Crompton |
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81. Loves frailty.
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Pierides | ||
117
81. Loves frailty.
Love, thou art a false delight,Th' art shoulder'd up with blisses,
Blinded with golden kisses;
Thy holiday is night.
Love, thou art a wanton youth,
And guilty of high treason
Against the Prince of reason:
Thy target is untruth.
Love, those leering looks of thine
Are gilt with feigned passion,
Mixt with dissimulation:
Flattery's thy Brigandine.
Love, thou art a subtile thiefe,
That dost both rob and wound us,
And many times confound us,
But giv'st us no relief.
Then Love avoid, and court my thoughts no more;
Thy birth is spurious, Venus is a whore.
Think not to trap me with thy sugered wiles;
I care not for thy frowns, nor weigh thy smiles:
One shall not please me, nor the other grieve me;
Beauty shall neither wound, nor Love relieve me.
Pierides | ||