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 Author on his Love-Melancholy.

F••e l'me halfe Atheist now: sure vertues are, Only well temperd bodies kept with care. For when I see this Passions seat i'th' heart: And a receipt against all Cupids art: Lov's arrowes so to th' publike view displaid That wee can see which burnes, which dulls a Maid; And how: what is the Poison he does give, And then againe what's the restorative. Sure wee must hither come our armes t' unfold, To look upright, and like our Sexe bold. Sweet Mistresse pray put on. I am resolv'd To laugh, being safe amongst these leaves involv'd. Whilst J doe read and Meditate this book, I dare the utmost Charmes of any Look. Nay I could gaze eu'n on Castara's face And nere be blind nay Kisse her if she was Here, yet nere perish for't, still be a man, Not scorcht to ashes drier then her fanne. With a too neer approach forsooth her beams

That gilds as shee walks by the glittering streams. If she would part, Farewell: when she is gone Methinks I now should live, nere turn'd to stone. If she should surfet on a Tart orort so, And overcharg'd to bed at Midday goe; J should nere light a candle, as if twere night Pray her to rise that we might see the light. When we were in the darke, Jde hardly say, After my shinnes were broke it was noon day. Nor when some spittle hung upon her lip. Should J avouch 'twas Nectar, and then sip. Now I have read this book, methinks one might Enjoy the spring both in the smell, and sight, Though she were ith' Exchange a buying knots, Or with her Taylor there contriving plots For a new Gowne, and had no time to dresse The Meadows with her looks, and so farre blesse The Country, as be present for to deck The ground with lilies dropping from her neck. I'de not mistake her cheeks for Gardens, sweare There were no Roses in the world, but there. If I now fluent were as th' Innes of Court, My. Musc should here run out to make her sport. Nor would I write o'th' thorn that knew the charm A Beauty has, when't did her foot no harme. For Venus coud not scape a wound, yet this A Brighter Venus see how whole she is.

None now shall travaile up into the skies For a huge Metaphor for her dazling eyes. Gallants shall thinke that there's a Sun ith sky, As well as that in their bright Ladies eye. Nor shall they henceforth whine in Rime, because His Mistresse spoke doubtfully ith' last clause.

Study your glasse you wantons, till you be Shrunke to as perfect shadows as you see. Pray' doe more scarlet on your Cheeks consume, Then Iudges weare; so that we may presume Your faces at the drapers cost you more Then your large wardrops, throngd with fruitful store. The next time you come forth, perhaps I'le say Tis a good picture, or well plasterd Clay. ••'me now as much' gainst courting faces, as Those that raile at it five houres by the glasse.

This work shall our affections so refine, That we shall here in vertue, like Gods, shine, Stews hence forth shall be sanctuaries, and All the Balconies honest in the Strand. Templars shall goe to plaies, and never see Whores besides those that are i'th Comoedy. The cost they should bestow in buying gownes, Fans, Knots, and Gloves, shall hence forth purchase Townes. Honest recreations now shall Heirs please, Be Drunke, see Plaies, and Game at Ordnaries. The Poxe' meng these shall be a Scandall now,

As much as that they deem to hold the plough. They shall contented be to ride ith' street, Without a bed fellow ith' Coach to greet.

If I cou'd venter Bookers haplesse fate, And durst but Prophesy after his rate, Amongst the dearths I woud produce the feare I have, e're long Women will cease to beare. The World will all turne Stoicks, when they find This Physick here: think only with the mind T'engender, alwaies judging th' issue foule, Which did not owe its birth to th' purer soule. Then we must feare the Worlds supply: be faine T'entreat Deucalion to throw stones againe. The Country Gentlemen will quite lay by Their English Plutarchs, to read here, and cry Wou'd their names perish't had, so they had took This Authors Counsell, living by his book: And turning from their Wives, shall e' en give ore The Husbands office, and beget no more. Nay Tribute then in Children will be told, A Progeny shall be our tax, not Gold. Shortly to Church to see a wedding goe, Shall to the People prove a Lord-Majors show. Men, as in Plagues, from Marriage will be bent. And every day will seem to be in Lent. There will no Matches be, but in Last Acts: When that the Poets strength of wine contracts.

The Priest will loose his fees, and lacke; for all He getts will be at some mans funerall; That woud because he had read this book, ee'n dye With too immoderate, and strict Chastity. Women will burne: wish ev'ry cart goes by That they were in't for some Adultery. Yet none shall quench their flames, unlesse they will, Like Phaedra, or be satisfi'd, or kill. Or like Pasiphaë, run to a Bull entreat That for their Husband, that shoud be their meat. Perhaps some Brutish Plowman, that can't spell: That thinks men conjured Divells out of hell With Medicinall Figures, and will not believe, May out of Ignorance make his wife Conceive. But then th' ofspring shall no more prove him Man Then his dull speeches, or his Proverbs can. Since by this Act wee'l only judge he knows, As much as Oxen doe, how a plough goes.

Sure J have humane Nature quite forsooke: Nothing can take me now, except this book. There does the Physicke faile, and all the Art Can but enflame, no whit aswage this dart. This Passion's only shifted: still't remaines In us a Conquerour, but with lesse staines. The Objects only chang'd, from well carv'd stone, A Face, to Arts and contemplation. Iust like Physitians that an ague turne

Into a feaver, yet still the Man does burne: Still freezes too by fits still hee's not well, His bodies only cheated with their spell. But they a disease turne to a disease, Here though't be passion still, the Ill does cease.

F. PALMER of Chr. Ch.