The Phanseys of William Cavendish Marquis of Newcastle addressed to Margaret Lucas and her Letters in reply: Edited by Douglas Grant |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
8. |
9. |
10. |
11. |
12. |
13. |
14. |
15. |
16. |
17. |
18. |
19. |
20. |
21. |
22. |
23. |
24. |
25. |
26. |
27. |
28. |
29. |
30. | 30 Our Love dispiseing both Venus and Cupid |
31. |
32. |
33. |
34. |
35. |
36. |
37. |
38. |
39. |
40. |
41. |
42. |
43. |
44. |
45. |
46. |
47. |
48. |
49. |
50. |
51. |
52. |
53. |
54. |
55. |
56. |
57. |
58. |
59. |
60. |
61. |
62. |
63. |
64. |
65. |
66. |
67. |
68. |
69. |
70. |
71. |
72. |
73. |
74. |
The Phanseys of William Cavendish Marquis of Newcastle | ||
40
30
Our Love dispiseing both Venus and Cupid
Who thinkes there is a Cupid,
His brayne is Very Stupid;
No paynted Winges or Bowe,
Ther's no such thinge I knowe;
Nor Lawne before his Eyes,
They are but Poett's Lyes;
Nor no such thinge as Ever
A glorious Silver Quiver,
Or Arrow's goldne Head
Makes Us Enamored:
Ther's no such thinge about him,
Then we will love without him.
His brayne is Very Stupid;
No paynted Winges or Bowe,
Ther's no such thinge I knowe;
Nor Lawne before his Eyes,
They are but Poett's Lyes;
Nor no such thinge as Ever
A glorious Silver Quiver,
Or Arrow's goldne Head
Makes Us Enamored:
Ther's no such thinge about him,
Then we will love without him.
Neyther his mother Venus,
The Poetts there did meane Us;
Nor yett her milke white doves,
All that is but our loves;
Nor is it a Reproach
To say shee hath no Coach,
Or Chariot, which some name it,
All gilte, for so they fame it,
Drawne in the purer skie;
In it the Poetts Lie:
Our love for that, instead
Of it, wee'le lye in bedd.
The Poetts there did meane Us;
Nor yett her milke white doves,
All that is but our loves;
Nor is it a Reproach
To say shee hath no Coach,
Or Chariot, which some name it,
All gilte, for so they fame it,
Drawne in the purer skie;
In it the Poetts Lie:
Our love for that, instead
Of it, wee'le lye in bedd.
Birds wooe and Kisse and Bill
Without a Cupid still;
And Beasts heapes Up love's treasure
And asks not Venus' pleasure;
Fishe, plants, too, never die,
Lives in their Proginie.
As theirs your love and myne;
They make no lofty Line,
Or in their love rehearse
A sad or witty Verse:
This is their love, t'is such;
Could we love halfe as much!
Without a Cupid still;
41
And asks not Venus' pleasure;
Fishe, plants, too, never die,
Lives in their Proginie.
As theirs your love and myne;
They make no lofty Line,
Or in their love rehearse
A sad or witty Verse:
This is their love, t'is such;
Could we love halfe as much!
The Phanseys of William Cavendish Marquis of Newcastle | ||