Classic Poem

1

Faith, you're mistaken, I'le not love
That face that frowns on me,
Though it be handsom, 't shall not move
My center'd soul that's farr above
The magick of a paint,
That on a Devil writes a Saint:
I hate your pictures and imagery
I'm no love- Sinon , nor will tamely now
Lie swadled in the trenches of your brow.

2

Though you are witty what care I?
My danger is the more;
Nay should you boast of honesty
Woman gives all those names the Lie:
In all you hardly can
Write after that fair copy, Man;
And dable in the steps we've gone before
We you admire, as we do parots all,
Not speaking well, but that they speak at all.

3

That Lass mine armes desire t'enfold,
Born in the golden age,
Guarded with Angels, but of Gold;
She that's in such a showre enroll'd
May tempt a Jove to be
Guilty of Loves Idolatry,
And make a pleasure of an Hermitage;
Though their teeth are not, if their necks wear pearl
A Kichin wench is consort for an Earl.

4

'Tis money makes the man , you say,
'T shall make the Woman too;
When both are clad in like aray
December rivals youthful May:
This rules the World, and this
Perfection of both sexes is;
This Flora made a Goddess, so 'twill you:
This makes us laugh, this makes us drink and sing;
This makes the beggar trample o're his King.