Wit A Sporting In a pleasant Grove Of New Fancies By H. B. [i.e. Henry Bold] |
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To himself of his Mistris.
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 | Wit A Sporting In a pleasant Grove Of New Fancies |  |
To himself of his Mistris.
An Epigram.
What though thou merit not? why know there liesVail'd in the courteous candor of her eyes,
A saving mercy, that can lend a wing
For dul despair to mount on, tis a thing
Beyond the common reach, to know how sweet
He lives, that doth in death a pardon meet.
But thou art poor; true, but her better part
Nere lookt upon the habit, but the heart.
Shee that has vertue cannot dote on those,
Whose best perfection is a sute of clothes.
Who court th'attracting beauties of the age
With some con'd stuff brought from the Cockpit stage:
Or gull their Mistris by some Poeme shown,
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When, if their brains were ransackt, you might know
They nere commenc't beyond their Criss-cross-rowe.
Then hope (poor heart) and strongly that shee will
At last imbrace thee, for she hath the skill
To school thee first with frowns, that so her favor
May, when she smiles, last with the greater savour.
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