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PRYTHEE die and set me free,

Or elfe be

Kind and brisk, and gay like me;
I pretend not to the wife ones,
To,the grave, to the grave,
Or the precife ones.

'Tis not cheeks, nor lips, nor eyes,

That I prize,

Quick conceits, or sharp replies,

If wife thou wilt appear and knowing,

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Why fo many bolts and locks,

Coats and fmocks,

And thofe drawers with a pox ?

I could wish, could nature make it,

Nakedness, nakedness

Itfelf were naked.

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But if a mistress I must have,

Wife and grave,

Let her fo herself behave

All the day long Susan civil,

Pap by night, pap by night,
Or fuch a devil.




LOVE! in what poifon is thy dart

Dipt, when it makes a bleeding heart?
None know, but they who feel the smart.

It is not thou, but we are blind,
And our corporeal eyes (we find)
Dazzle the optics of our mind.

Love to our citadel reforts,
Through thofe deceitful fally-ports,
Our fentinels betray our forts.

What fubtle witchcraft man constrains,

To change his pleasure into pains,

And all his freedom into chains?

May not a prison, or a grave,

Like wedlock, honour's title have?

That word makes free-born man a slave.


How happy he that loves not, lives!
Him neither hope nor fear deceives,
To fortune who no hostage gives.

How unconcern'd in things to come!
If here uneafy; finds at Rome,
At Paris, or Madrid, his home.

Secure from low and private ends,
His life, his zeal, his wealth attends
His prince, his country, and his friends.

Danger and honour are his joy;
But a fond wife, or wanton boy,
May all those generous thoughts destroy.

Then he lays-by the public care,
Thinks of providing for an heir;
Learns how to get, and how to fpare.

Nor fire, nor foe, nor fate, nor night,
The Trojan hero did affright,
Who bravely twice renew'd the fight.

Though ftill his foes in number grew,
Thicker their darts and arrows flew,
Yet left alone, no fear he knew.

But death in all her forms appears,
From every thing he fees and hears,

For whom he leads, and whom he bears.

*His father and fon.

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Love, making all things elfe his foes,
Like a fierce torrent, overflows
Whatever doth his courfe oppofe

This was the cause the poets fung,
Thy mother from the fea was sprung,
But they were mad to make thee young.

Her father, not her fon, art thou:
From our defires our actions grow;
And from the caufe th' effect muft flow.

Love is as old as place or time;
'Twas he the fatal tree did climb,

Grandfire of father Adam's crime.

Well may'st thou keep this world in awe;
Religion, wifdom, honour, law,
The tyrant in his triumph draw.

'Tis he commands the powers above; Phoebus refigns his darts, and Jove His thunder, to the God of Love.

To him doth his feign'd mother yield;
Nor Mars (her champion) 's flaming fhield
Guards him, when Cupid takes the field.

He clips Hope's wings, whofe airy blifs
Much higher than fruition is;

But less than nothing, if it mifs.


When matches Love alone projects,

The cause transcending the effects,

That wild-fire's quench'd in cold neglects.

Whilft those conjunctions prove the best,
Where Love's of blindness difpoffeft,
By perspectives of intereft.

Though Solomon with a thousand wives,
To get a wife fucceffor ftrives,
But one (and he a fool) furvives.

Old Rome of children took no care,
They with their friends their beds did fhare,
Secure t' adopt a hopeful heir.

Love, drowsy days and stormy nights
Makes; and breaks friendship, whofe delights
Feed, but not glut our appetites.

Well-chofen friendship, the most noble
Of virtues, all our joys makes double,
And into halves divides our trouble.

But when th' unlucky knot we tie,
Care, avarice, fear, and jealousy,
Make friendship languish till it die.

The wolf, the lion, and the bear,
When they their prey in pieces tear,
To quarrel with themfelves forbear.

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