The Phanseys of William Cavendish Marquis of Newcastle addressed to Margaret Lucas and her Letters in reply: Edited by Douglas Grant |
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| 1. | 1 The universall Confest Beuty |
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 | The Phanseys of William Cavendish Marquis of Newcastle |  |
1
The universall Confest Beuty
I will not say that love in you discloses
A mingl'd Bath of Lillies and of Roses
In Eyther Cheeke; or Else so lovely borne
For conqueringe Hartes, all other Bewties scorne;
Or that you'r all well shap'te; and Even length
Converts love's Infidells beyond their Strength,
And makes an Athist to God Cupid more
Pious then Ever love did know before.
At your sacred Alter's lipes lovers kneelinge,
Offringe Thoughts, Kisses, for prayres without feelinge:
All these you know too well your selfe is true,
But I must tell you somethinge more of you.
A mingl'd Bath of Lillies and of Roses
In Eyther Cheeke; or Else so lovely borne
For conqueringe Hartes, all other Bewties scorne;
Or that you'r all well shap'te; and Even length
Converts love's Infidells beyond their Strength,
And makes an Athist to God Cupid more
Pious then Ever love did know before.
At your sacred Alter's lipes lovers kneelinge,
Offringe Thoughts, Kisses, for prayres without feelinge:
All these you know too well your selfe is true,
But I must tell you somethinge more of you.
Love heretofore still diffringe in Each minde,
Wondringe att one another, thought love blinde;
And so he was, but since all Ages wooe
You for love's Goddesse; Men of busnesse too
Confessinge you love's Center without Sinne;
Mankinde Enamor'd Circlinge you within;
How can you scape? not Impudence denies
Where all agrees, you've given Cupid's Eyes
A perfect sight; but love sick we are all,
And love is growne now Epidemicall:
Must die for love of you, then bee't your will
That I may bee the last that you will kill.
Wondringe att one another, thought love blinde;
And so he was, but since all Ages wooe
You for love's Goddesse; Men of busnesse too
2
Mankinde Enamor'd Circlinge you within;
How can you scape? not Impudence denies
Where all agrees, you've given Cupid's Eyes
A perfect sight; but love sick we are all,
And love is growne now Epidemicall:
Must die for love of you, then bee't your will
That I may bee the last that you will kill.
| The Phanseys of William Cavendish Marquis of Newcastle | |