 | Poems, with The tenth Satyre of Iuvenal Englished |  |
A Song to Amoret.
If I were dead, and in my place,
Some fresher youth design'd,
To warme thee with new fires, and grace
Those Armes I left behind;
Some fresher youth design'd,
To warme thee with new fires, and grace
Those Armes I left behind;
Were he as faithfull as the Sunne,
That's wedded to the Sphere;
His bloud as chaste, and temp'rate runne,
As Aprils mildest teare;
That's wedded to the Sphere;
His bloud as chaste, and temp'rate runne,
As Aprils mildest teare;
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Or were he rich, and with his heapes,
And spacious share of Earth,
Could make divine affection cheape,
And court his golden birth:
And spacious share of Earth,
Could make divine affection cheape,
And court his golden birth:
For all these Arts I'de not believe,
(No though he should be thine)
The mighty Amorist could give
So rich a heart as mine.
(No though he should be thine)
The mighty Amorist could give
So rich a heart as mine.
Fortune and beauty thou mightst finde,
And greater men then I:
But my true resolved minde,
They never shall come nigh.
And greater men then I:
But my true resolved minde,
They never shall come nigh.
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For I not for an houre did love,
Or for a day desire,
But with my soule had from above,
This endles holy fire.
Or for a day desire,
But with my soule had from above,
This endles holy fire.
| Poems, with The tenth Satyre of Iuvenal Englished | |