Some that have deeper digged
love's mine than I,
Say, where his centric happiness doth lie;
I've loved, and
got, and told,
But should I love, get, tell, till I were
old,
I should not find that hidden mystery.
Oh, 'tis imposture
all!
And as no chemic yet th' elixir got,
But glorifies his
pregnant pot
If by the way to
him befall
Some odoriferous thing, or medicinal,
So, lovers dream a rich and
long delight,
But get a winter-seeming
summer's night.
Our ease, our thrift, our honour, and our day,
Shall we for this vain bubble's shadow pay?
Ends love in this, that my man
Can be as happy'as I can, if he can
Endure the short scorn of a bridegroom's play?
That loving wretch that swears
'Tis not the bodies marry, but the minds,
Which he in her angelic finds,
Would swear as justly that he
hears,
In that day's rude hoarse
minstrelsy, the spheres.
Hope not for mind in women; at
their best
Sweetness
and wit, they're but mummy possessed.
