A Perswasive Letter to his Mistress.
SWeetest, but read what silent Love hath writ
With thy fair eyes, tast but of Loves fine wit,
Be not self will'd; for thou art much too fair,
For death to triumph o're without a•• heir;
Thy unus'd beauty, must be tomb'd with thee,
Which us'd, lives thy Executour to be;
The Flowers distill'd, though they with Winter meet
Lose but their show, their substance still is sweet.
Nature made thee her seal, she meant thereby:
Thou shouldst Print more, not let the Copie die;
What, hast thou vow'd an aged Maid to die?
Be not a fool; Lovers may swear and lie.
Forswear thy self, thou wilt be far more wise
To break an oath then lose a Paradise.
For in the midst of all Loves pure protesting,
All Faith, all Oaths, all Vows should be but jesting:
What is so fair that hath no little spot;
Come, come thou mayest be false yet know'st it not.
I wish to you, what hath been wish'd by others,
For some fair Maids by me would have been Mothers;
Pardon me not, for I confess no error;