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, on his Love-Melancholy.

LOve, who, till now, was loosenes and hot Flame, Js here made warmth; & joyes he is grown Tame. The Wanton's sober, here: this Artist brings The Boy, as comely still yet clip's his wings. Looke on his Blushes, his Cheekes modest fires. There's the same Rose, only 't hath lost the Briers. He, still his Jvory Bow, still keepes his Dart: Shootes here too, but with Judgement, and more Art.

He is not not now call'd Lust, or Amorous staines: (As if the God i'th' shrine, were Sinne i'th' Veines.) Nor yet a perfect Birth: he must not shine, Blind, in his Mothers armes, yet see in Thine. Thus, th' Authour Iudge 'twixt us and Cupid, hee Nor takes from man, nor slatters Deitie. But, like an equall Flame, doth light impart, To shew the Beauty, yet not hide the Wart. For, had he made Love, Good, and our Desire, Without our reason, or wills awe, Entire: Then Ʋertue had been Nature; and We, been

Good without praise; 'cause without pow'r to sin. Lucrece had lost the merit of her Care, Were she as eas'ly Chast, as she was Faire. Ice, had been rank'd with Ʋertue: we should know Chast Ʋirgins, Chronicled with coldest snow. Romans, that story Beauties free from sin, Had search'd their Gardens, and put Lillies in. Roses had then heard, modest: and one line Made Vesta's Blushes, and her Rubies joyne. And the dejected Goddesse weep, to see Her Christalls, Pure, and Ʋertuous, as she.

No such Position then. For here our Love May be, or that o'th' sparrow, or Chast Dove. The Flames here drawne, nor Good, nor Bad: but are Apt, or to shine a Comet, or a starre. They are themselves, Indifferent: and may Rise to a raging Blaze, or temp'rate Ray. The Picture, doubtfull like the Face, may prove In thy breast, either Divell, or God of Love.

No Galen here, that may confine the soule To th' Temper; and call't Vice, when the Bodies foule Potions might so make honest men; and awe Our Crimes, like scarres; and plaisters stand for law Fevers, and lust, were One, and both would heale By Iuleps; and men take Pills, not to steale. The Iudgement's subt'ler, here; and hath allow'd Some parch'd Moores, chast: light, wrap'd in that black clowd.

Here Scythians breasts of hot desire have sense: Nor, with their Furres, still put on Innocence. Yet, he still grants, these Flames may sooner grow, Jn Easterne sulphur, then in Northerne snow: And, that chast thoughts in Italy are rare: And, that each Turtle, proves a Phoenix there.

He envies no Climes Vertue, as none's sin: Yet knowes, that some an easier Conquest win. All may be chast, for him: yet, 'tis well knowne, This Iewell is some Climats common stone.

Thus the wise Authour makes his Iustice sure: Allowes all Rich, but those that will be Poore.

MARTIN LLUELLIN. Chr. Ch.