If it be so, his valour I must praise,

That being the weaker, yet can force his ways;

And wish that to his valour he had strength,

That he might drive the fire quite out at length;

For, troth, as yet the fire gets the day,

For evermore the water runs away.

The Deformed Mistress

I know there are some fools that care

Not for the body, so the face be fair;

Some others, too, that in a female creature

Respect not beauty, but a comely feature;

And others, too, that for those parts in sight

Care not so much, so that the rest be right.

Each man his humour hath, and, faith, ’tis mine

To love that woman which I now define.

First I would have her wainscot foot and hand

More wrinkled far than any pleated band,

That in those furrows, if I’d take the pains,

I might both sow and reap all sorts of grains:

Her nose I’d have a foot long, not above,

With pimples embroider’d, for those I love;

And at the end a comely pearl of snot,

Considering whether it should fall or not:

Provided, next, that half her teeth be out,

Nor do I care much if her pretty snout

Meet with her furrow’d chin, and both together

Hem in her lips, as dry as good whit-leather:

One wall-eye she shall have, for that’s a sign

In other beasts the best: why not in mine?

Her neck I’ll have to be pure jet at least,

With yellow spots enamell’d; and her breast,

Like a grasshopper’s wing, both thin and lean,

Not to be toucht for dirt, unless swept clean:

As for her belly, ’tis no matter, so

There be a belly, and a cunt below;

Yet, if you will, let it be something high,

And always let there be a timpany.

But soft! where am I now? here I should stride,

Lest I fall in, the place must be so wide,

And pass unto her thighs, which shall be just

Like to an ant’s that’s scraping in the dust:

Into her legs I’d have love’s issues fall,

And all her calf into a gouty small:

Her foot both thick and eagle-like display’d,

The symptoms of a comely, handsome maid.

As for her parts behind, I ask no more:

If they but answer those that are before,

I have my utmost wish; and, having so,

Judge whether I am happy, yea or no.

To a Lady That Forbade to Love before Company

What! no more favours? Not a ribband more,

Not fan nor muff to hold as heretofore?

Must all the little blisses then be left,

And what was once love’s gift become our theft?

May we not look ourselves into a trance,

Teach our souls parley at our eyes, not glance,

Not touch the hand, not by soft wringing there

Whisper a love that only yes can hear?

Not free a sigh, a sigh that’s there for you?

Dear, must I love you, and not love you too?

Be wise, nice, fair; for sooner shall they trace

The feather’d choristers from place to place,

By prints they make in th’ air, and sooner say

By what right line the last star made his way

That fled from heaven to earth, than guess to know

How our loves first did spring, or how they grow.

Love is all spirit: fairies sooner may

Be taken tardy, when they night-tricks play,

Than we. We are too dull and lumpish rather:

Would they could find us both in bed together!

* * *

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?

Prithee, why so pale? —

Will, when looking well can’t move her,

Looking ail prevail?

Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?

Prithee, why so mute? —

Will, when speaking well can’t win her,

Saying nothing do’t?

Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move,

This cannot take her —

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her:

The Devil take her!

Farewell to Love

Well-shadowed landskip, fare-ye-well:

How I have loved you, none can tell,

At least so well

As he that now hates more

Then e’er he loved before.

But my dear nothings, take your leave;

No longer must you me deceive,

Since I perceive

All the deceit, and know

Whence the mistake did grow.

As he whose quicker eye doth trace

A false star shot to a marked place

Does run apace,

And thinking it to catch

A jelly up does snatch,

So our dull souls, tasting delight

Far off, by sense, and appetite,

Think that is right

And real good, when yet

’Tis but the counterfeit.

Oh, how I glory now that I

Have made this new discovery!

Each wanton eye

Enflamed before; no more

Will I increase that score.

If I gaze now, ’tis but to see

What manner of death’s-head ’twill be,

When it is free

From that fresh upper skin,

The gazer’s