 | Claraphil and Clarinda |  |
TO CLARINDA:
On Her Perfection.
I will not Saint my fair Clarinda, SHEMore glorious is in her humanity;
Nor (in the heat of Fancy) pluck a Star
To rob the needy World, and place her there,
These are the subtle Raptures of the Times,
With which the wanton Poets make their Rhymes,
Pamper'd with such new-cook'd Divinity,
Surfets; believing (in a pride of Soul)
These fictions true, and Sins without controul;
Do Angels boast habitual purity?
No 'tis in them impeccability,
And therefore not praise-worthy, they've, nor will,
Nor power to think, much less to practice Ill:
With thee 'tis otherwise, for thou mayst sin
Beyond hope of Repentance, and therein
Appears the odds, for maugre Flesh and Bloud,
Devil, Temptation, Beauty, thou art Good.
| Claraphil and Clarinda | |