77
'Cause early Men, their Curtaines draw, and say
Behold the Sunne is risen, now 'tis day;
Knowing thy Sunne is set, thou swearst their sight,
Is led by bus'nesse t'a miss-take of Light.
Lovers beleeve, if yet th'Almighty cou'd
Doubt part of his so swift creation good;
To ease him of another Fiat, they
Can with their Mistresse beames, make him a day:
To rule the Night, each Glance (they thinke) will fit
Planets to largest Spheares, if wee admit
Their silly Priests (the Poets) be but by,
That love to sooth such faith t'idolatrie.
But how have I transgress'd, thus to declame
'Gainst sorrow I should envy more than blame?
For what is he, though reverendly old,
And than a Mountaine Muscovite more cold;
Though he want Wit, or nature to desire;
Though his hard heart be Ir'ne, his heart-strings Wire:
Or what is he, though blind, and knowes no good
Of love, but by an itching faith in's blood,
That when thy Tongue her beauty open layes
To mentall view, and her soft minde displayes,
Behold the Sunne is risen, now 'tis day;
Knowing thy Sunne is set, thou swearst their sight,
Is led by bus'nesse t'a miss-take of Light.
Lovers beleeve, if yet th'Almighty cou'd
Doubt part of his so swift creation good;
To ease him of another Fiat, they
Can with their Mistresse beames, make him a day:
To rule the Night, each Glance (they thinke) will fit
Planets to largest Spheares, if wee admit
Their silly Priests (the Poets) be but by,
That love to sooth such faith t'idolatrie.
But how have I transgress'd, thus to declame
'Gainst sorrow I should envy more than blame?
For what is he, though reverendly old,
And than a Mountaine Muscovite more cold;
Though he want Wit, or nature to desire;
Though his hard heart be Ir'ne, his heart-strings Wire:
Or what is he, though blind, and knowes no good
Of love, but by an itching faith in's blood,
That when thy Tongue her beauty open layes
To mentall view, and her soft minde displayes,
Will
