Poems, &c. By James Shirley.

To the proud M.

PRoud woman, know I am above As much thy anger as thy love: I did once think thou hadst a face; But when next thou tak'st thy glasse, If thou canst see through so much paint, Pray to thy owne; no more my Saint; Thy eyes, those glouring twinnes, shall be No more misleading fires to me; Nor hope they shall continue bright, For I will curse out all their light: But this would shew that I were vext, And so thy Tryimph might be next That thou should'st force me into rage: No, I will laugh thee into age, Strike wrinkles on thy brow, and not Discompose my pleasant thought, Till thou, thy Witches face despise, And grow angry with their eyes, Thus wretched thou shalt wish to die, But late obtain it; and when I Have j••erd thee into dead and rotten, Ile throw thee into quite forgotten.