Erōtomania or A treatise discoursing of the essence, causes, symptomes, prognosticks, and cure of love, or erotique melancholy. Written by Iames Ferrand Dr. of Physick

On this Learned Treatise Love-Melancholy.

SInce every Idle Pamphlet that is writ With a sick Iudgement, and a shallow Wit, Is Vsher'd with as many slender feet As ever squir'd a Countesse in the Street. As 'twere the only office of a Friend To Rhyme, and 'gainst his Conscience to commend; And sweare like Poets of the Post, This Play Exceeds all Iohnsons Works; shewing that they The Authors seconds are, and dar'd to write As rashly as young Duellists doe fight.

What Blood of Verse should here be spent! To D•• Sick of a Poem now, were Piety. Tis for Healths sake we Martyrdome endure; Playes are the Sores of Love, this Book the Cure. Poetique Heate, like Bonfires, should proclaime Our Ioy, and blaze, 'cause we escape a Flame. Lust is Pandora's Boxe; where it doth dwell. The Soule's a Divell, and the Body Hell. But these Blest Lines, like Charmes from Heaven sent Doe make Plagues Health, and Satan Innocent. Hence should we then keep a new Holy-day; And, 'stead of Ʋersifying, Fast, and Pray. If those were Heroes thought that kil'd one Beast; The Author of this Booke's a God at least.

You that still sigh, not breath; and fondly dote On every Black-bagge, and new Petticoate. Playing your sad and Melancholy tricks, Like devout Iesuits 'fore a Crucifixe. Being All things, but your selfe; Now that, then thi•• Acting'ore Ovids Metamorphosis. Who, although Woman's from, and for Man made, Her Creature art, more plyant then her shade. Observing all hir Wincks as seriously As the Obedient Ape his Masters eye. Begging Advowsons of hir Haire; or that That, which now tyes hir Shooe, may grace thy Hat••

Reare up thy Head, which, like the Monsters, hun••

Downe at thy Brest; unty those Armes, that strung Thee like a Booke; Bid Farewell now to Teares, Palenes, & Hollow eyes; to Groves, Dreames, Feares, And Ʋerses, which as lamentably run As the last Fountaine that thou sat'st upon. Thou shall not still live an Hyperbole, Nor vainly Jdoll thy Idolatry. Leaveing thy lowder Blasphemy, you'le see There's no such Divell, as thy Deitie. Thy Soule's come Home againe; Thy Cheeks fresh Rose May now be smelt, by a cleane Ʋpright Nose. Those Flouds, & Ebbs of Thoughts, which rag'd by fits, Are now as hushd, as when the Halcyon sits. This Book will dresse thee too; wee shall not say, Thou look'st like one going to Bed all day. Nor shall the French disease (strange Heraldry!) Blaze, as an embleme of Gentility. You need not now seeke sadder Remedies, From a quick poyson, or a Precipice. There needs no Falling Out, like those that cry, Discords in Soules too make up Harmony. Love, as 'tis borne, is Heal'd too by a Looke: Read but this plainer Print, you're sav'd by th' Book. Cupid is now turn'd Man; and is all eyes; Tis only hard to Love, and not be Wise. Js Love a subtle Labyrinth? Here you Have every Line a sure directing clue.

Though Woemens Beauty Tanns the soule within, As the Sunns brighter Rayes doe black the skin. Wearing this maske, you may securely see A flaming eye, and yet not scorched be. Passions, like Adams Beasts, shall fly in feare, And Reason turne, when Nakednesse is neare. The tempting Brests, now bare without offence, Raise Meditations, not Concupiscence. They humble, not inflame; when they appeare, Well thinke of nothing but our nursing there. All motion's zeale, Rapture and Extasy; And every kisse, and act of Charity. Our Bedds are Altars now, where refind Hearts Mixe as the only common, naked Parts. We love a Mistresse as a Friend, and greet Strangers as Chast as when our own lipps meet. No talke of Hornes i'th Citty: The Court Page Shall not againe take nightly Pilgrimage. Nor will a tender Lucrece feare a Rape; To meet in private now, will be to scape. This Treatise makes all Honest; we shall have No Infants find their Mothers wombe their Grave

Thus Health alone is not recoverd; we Owe to this Booke, Vertue, and Piety. Sicknesse doth often make us good; but then When we are well we fall to vice agen. But these Divine Ingredients worke so sure,

That they, like Grace, Preserve, as well as Cure. Wee may as soone recall the Dead from Dust, And catch past Houres, as a relapse of Lust.

Is there a new Disease? and does no man Know what to call't? 'Tis the Physitian. J meane those Empericks, who out of shame Conceale it, or, 'cause 'tis an easy Name. Aegyptians like th' have Hearbs their Gods; they read (If it be English'd) Galen, as their Creed. And Cure, (as Trees embrace by sympathy;) By chance not Art, they cannot tell you why. But least this precious Antidote should erre, A Synod of Physitians here Conferre. So many drammes of Reason make this Bill, That it doth surer save, then Poysons kill.

And least severer Druggs should fright, (as some Will refuse Health, unlesse it neatly come.) Poetry candies the Philosophy, Like Galen mixt with Sydnies Arcadye. Which (like two Starres conjoyn'd) are so well laid, That it will please Stoicke, and Chambermaid.

This, (Doctor) doe I consecrate to Thee; 'Tis though in broken mony, a kind Fee.

But hearke; some cry, the Stationer's mistooke, And plac'd within the Cover of this Booke.

Critique; I hope these Pills may worke with Thee; Then this wast paper may be Courtesy.

My Suburbe-Wit will doe no wrong; the Sun, When 'tis eclips'd, is then most look'd upon. Faire Buildings have rude Antiques, and the Poore, Where a full Table's kept, lye at the Doore.

RICHARD WEST of Christ Church.