Tixall Poetry.
95
No Love Like that Of the Soule.
Some froward heretickes in love ther bee,
Wilfull abusers of his diety;
Whose weake opinions, and whose feavorish flame,
Pretend his right, but doe abuse his name.
Such are the idle likers of a face,
Who leave the soule for the fantastick case;
Which, though to day, like some bright shrine of art,
Th' amased gazers bend to; deaths cold dart
May ere to morrow so deforme, dismay'd
The adorer stands, of what he lov'd afray'd.
Ah! then who would this busy nothing prise,
No sooner lik'd, but vanish'd from our eyes!
Yet this unlucky passion is renewed
As oft as some faire and new prospect's vew'd.
How falsely these usurpe a lovers name,
Who merit rather what the abused dame
Gave the unconstant Pamphilus, new smart
For every change of his removing hart.
Wilfull abusers of his diety;
Whose weake opinions, and whose feavorish flame,
Pretend his right, but doe abuse his name.
Such are the idle likers of a face,
Who leave the soule for the fantastick case;
Which, though to day, like some bright shrine of art,
Th' amased gazers bend to; deaths cold dart
May ere to morrow so deforme, dismay'd
The adorer stands, of what he lov'd afray'd.
Ah! then who would this busy nothing prise,
No sooner lik'd, but vanish'd from our eyes!
Yet this unlucky passion is renewed
As oft as some faire and new prospect's vew'd.
How falsely these usurpe a lovers name,
Who merit rather what the abused dame
Gave the unconstant Pamphilus, new smart
For every change of his removing hart.
