Tixall Poetry/Self-Love Mentayned to the Faire Self-Denyer, My Sister, Th.

by unknown author

Self-Love Mentayned

to

the Faire Self-Denyer, My Sister,

Th.

 

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'Tweire fit, before I went about to proove
Self-love the onely spheire where all we moove,
To see first, what is self, then what is love.

Self-nesse, is all my beings property,
At least the best, and not the worst of me,
My soules, and not my body’s entity.

And love is the uniting of my will,
Meerely to what seemes fittest for it still,
And only can my soules best powre fulfill.

This so defin'd, you may inferre from hence,
My self-love's only, in its proper sense,
In my owne good a fitting complacence.

And so deduce, all such who ruinate,
To raise their bodys welth, their soûles estate,
Not to be sayd themselves to love, but hate.

Yet not to build on empty words, if you
Wil call it self-love, as the vulgar doe,
I feare in this we are self-lovers too.

For such self-love in every vice we see,
And who from every little vice is free,
Has surely more of angell much then me.

But here our blindnesse shews, how too too true,
Such love's but pride, and brookes not its owne vew
Since we were humble, if our pride we knew.

To over-value my owne vertue, weire
Not love but fondnesse, and to recken deare
My vice, weire ignorance, or doatage cleare.

Nor does our self-love contradict that state
Where we, with reason, oft ourselves doe hate,
Since both are partners in the same debate.

To hate myself, that is to loath my ill,
Is but from bad to seperate my will,
And what is this but good self-loving still?

And thus my sence my reason seldome loves,
My passion oft my judgement disaprooves,
This way my spirit, that my body mooves.

If my owne sinne be my owne enemy,
And good controwle my bad, tis plane to see
I ever hate myself for love of me.

And when I others hate, or turne my mind
From union with them, tis because I find
Them crosse to me; self-love still ownes his kind.

Now, if't be self-love when I hate them so,
Much more tis when to them my love I show,
Since love suites more with love, then hate, you know.

For, when I their perfections most admire,
That they weire mine is still my first desyre,
Next by self-love I to the lyke aspire.

If friends are second selves, we love aright
Ourselves, as first selves best: and though we might
Love them as first, tweire self-love still to th' hight.

Weir't possible, that any handsome she
Could once endure a thought of love from me,
That very love should none but self-love be.

For she should beare my hart still in her owne,
Nor could it prejudice self-love, to owne
Her hart and myne more worth, then mine alone.

This weire no more, then by a second choice,
To ad unto my hart a double poyse,
In self redoubled love more to rejoyce.

Or should I for her honor die, the strife,
In such a noble cause to loose a lyfe,
Would croune my self-love more then such a wyfe.

Then for my frend to die, whos worth I deeme
Beyond my owne, weire not for love of him,
But for preferring of my just esteeme.

Now if self-murder be of sinnes the worst,
Self-hatred is of vice the most accurst,
And so self-love, of vertues, still the first.

Love greater grows by how much more tis spy'd,
From self-love lesse remov'd, and more aly'd,
Or as the lov'd is more to th' lover ty'd.

So man, then neihbor, next our kin apeare,
As sister, mother, wyfe, in order deare,
As more or lesse they to ourselves draw neare.

T' expresse our perfect'st love, we're us'd to cry,
My hart, my lyfe, my soule, my better I!
And what, I pray, but self-love meanes this My?

Nay, in my purest thoughts, on God I call,
My Maker, Saviour, Comforter, my all,
And soaring highest down to self-love fall.

An Epicure might prayse, exalt, admire,
His happy careless Gods, but neire desyre,
Nor love, as not relating to their quire.

We love our God, because hee's loving knowne,
And though we dy'd, lyke him, for him alone,
Our cheefest love, as his, weire still our owne.

We sillily suppose some hidden flame
Of mother's love attracts the bleating lamb,
When tis the milke she seekes, and not the dam.

We dreame some conjugall affection charmes
The vine to clip the elme, her husband's armes,
When tis to leane, and save her bunch from harmes.

The loadston loves its iron, but tis to feede,
The iron returnes the love, but tis to breed
In 'tself new vertue from that hidden seed.

But here I pose myself, how can I vewe
Self-love in all, who find no such in you,
To whos high worth all other love is deue?

And yet I may retort, how can my sence
Doubt that in all, which, by experience,
I find in me, who have the least pretence?

In earnest, madam, such as you, who are
So lov'd by all, I grant may better spare
Self-love to us, who need a greater share.

And yet that very gratitude, which you
Referre unto yourselves, as still you doe,
Containes a smattering in't of self-love too.

Had I a style, or pen, lyke yours to try,
In such a cause I might, compendiously,
At once my self-love prayse, and justify.

Where now my slender veine must stretch in fine
To shoot out all in length, since ten of myne,
In substance hardly tythe your single line.