Page 97
Idle Verse.
GO, go, queint folies, sugred sin,
Shadow no more my door;
I will no longer Cobwebs spin,
I'm too much on the score.
For since amidst my youth, and night,
My great preserver smiles,
Wee'l make a Match, my only light,
And Joyn against their wiles;
Blind, desp'rate fits, that study how
To dresse, and trim our shame,
That gild rank poyson, and allow
Vice in a fairer name;
The Purles of youthfull bloud, and bowles,
Lust in the Robes of Love,
The idle talk of feav'rish souls
Sick with a scarf, or glove;
Let it suffice my warmer days
Simper'd, and shin'd on you,
Twist not my Cypresse with your Bays,
Or Roses with my Yewgh;
Go, go, seek out some greener thing,
It snows, and freezeth here;
Let Nightingales attend the spring,
Winter is all my year.