Classic Poem

1

Mistake me not, I am not of that mind
To hate all woman kind;
Nor can you so my patience vex,
To make my Muse blaspheme your sex,
Nor with my Satyrs bite you;
Though there are some in your free-State,
Some things in you, who're Candidate,
That he who is, or loves himself, must hate;
Yet I'll not therefore slight you
For I'm a Schismatick in Love,
And what makes most abhorr it,
In me does more affection move,
And I love the better for it

2

I vow, I am so farr from loving none,
That I love every one;
If fair I must, if brown she be,
She's lovely, and for Sympathy,
'Cause we're alike, I love her;
If tall, she's proper; and if short,
She's humble and I love her for't;
Small's pretty, fat is pleasant, every sort
Some graceful good discover;
If young, she's plyant to the sport;
And if her visage carry
Gray hairs and wrinkles, yet I'll court,
And so turn Antiquary.

3

Be her hair red, be her lips gray or blew,
Or any other hue,
Or has she but the ruins of a nose,
Or but eye-sockets, I'le love those;
Though skales, not skin, does clothe her,
Though from her lungs, the sent that comes
Does rowt her teeth out of their gums;
I'll count all these for high Encomiums,
Nor will I therefore loath her
There are no rules for beauty, but
'Tis as our fancies make it:
Be you but kind, I'll think you fair
And all for truth shall take it.