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Some that have deeper digg'd love's mine than I, |
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Say, where his centric happiness doth lie: |
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I have lov'd, and got, and told, |
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But should I love, get, tell, till I were old, |
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I should not find that hidden mystery. |
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O! 'tis imposture all: |
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And as no chemic yet th' elixir got, |
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But glorifies his pregnant pot, |
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If by the way to him befall |
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Some odoriferous thung, or medicinal, |
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So, lovers dream a rich and long delight, |
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But get a winter-seeming summer's night. |
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Our ease, our thrift, our honour, and our day, |
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Shall we, for this vain bubble's shadow pay? |
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Ends love in this, that my man, |
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Can be as happy as I can; if he can |
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Endure the short scorn of a bridegroom's play? |
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That loving wretch that swears, |
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'Tis not the bodies marry, but the minds, |
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Which he in her angelic finds, |
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Would swear as justly, that he hears, |
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In that day's rude hoarse minstrelsy, the spheres. |
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Hope not for mind in women; at their best |
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Sweetness and wit, they are but mummy, possessed. |
