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

To the Authour upon his Love-Melancholy.

CƲpid, th' art idle: lend another dart; 'Tis poore, to triumph ore a single Heart. Ben't partiall, strike 'em both; that we may find, Th' art truly Iustice, not in an Embleme, blind. Let all thy shafts be golden ones, be't prophane, T'approach thy Altars, with a Vestall flame.

What a hard case 'tis, to see thy Votaries, With their neglected Hats, pull'd downe their eyes, Looke like so many Cupids? but that they Can't make their Ladies squeake, as Cupid may. Pray y' pitty him, Lady! How you make him looke! His cloathes he weares, as if he had mistooke One peice for t'other; and you may safely sweare, Though he seeme drest, yet they still scatter'd are. His buttons, (like Tarquins Poppy heads) fall down, Some halfe a dozen at a sigh; and's Crowne Is grown bald with scratching Tunes out: such stuffe, As I conceive the Spaniard in the ruffe, Woes his sword with. Another dolefull Wight.

Strucke into a deepe Melancholy plight, Because (forsooth) his Mistris does but frowne; Thinking to shew a worse face then her owne, For a foyle (poore Vnthrift!) straight runs out Of all the wit he has; and layes about, (As he were wood) to make some Anagram; (Hoping shee'le prove as fruitfull as her Name) Or some pure Dialogue; which He, alone, Repeates to her; all in one, constant Tone, Like th' fellow that tell's billets out, or rather Like him, that playes (without a pipe) o' th' Tabor. This is your doing, Cupid; 'tis a plaine Case, 'Tis you, that tye their Garters i' th' wrong place.

Come, button up your doublets, Gentlemen; And learne to speake your Mother-tongue agen; (For, this you ne're were borne to) talke in Prose, Like sager Common-wealths-men in Trunke-Hose.

Had the blind God more fiercely wounded thee, Then the twelve signes doe the Anatomy; Did'st never woe her, but in the dismall Tone Of King Darius: and did'st then put on A Face suitable, that one might doubt, whether Thou wer't not some clown, praying for faire weather; Were thy story of as much direfull woe, As that, of Iuliet and Hieronymo: Here's that would cure you: better farre, then e're Or Cupid can, or else his Messenger.

Apollo, once againe is Mortall; He, Blind God, no more now dreads thy Injury. And, 'cause thou mad'st him doate upon the Coy Daphne, he now ha's wounded thee, proude boy.

RICH. GOODRIDGE. Chr. Ch.