ABSTRACT
I Dull Love no more thy Senceless Arrows prize, Damn thy Gay Quiver, break thy Bow; ’Tis only young Lysanders Eyes, That all the Arts of Wounding know. II 5 A Pox of Foolish Politicks in Love, A wise delay in Warr the Foe may harme: By Lazy Siege while you to Conquest move; His fiercer Beautys vanquish by a Storme. III Some wounded God, to be reveng’d on thee, 10 The Charming Youth form’d in a lucky houre, Drest him in all that fond Divinity, That has out-Rivall’d thee, a God, in Pow’r. IV Or else while thou supinely laid Basking beneath som Mirtle shade, 15 In careless sleepe, or tir’d with play, When all thy Shafts did scatterd ly; Th’unguarded Spoyles he bore away, And Arm’d himself with the Artillery. V The Sweetness from thy Eyes he took, 20 The Charming Dimples from thy Mouth, That wonderous Softness when you spoke; And all thy Everlasting Youth. VI Thy bow, thy Quiver, and thy Darts: Even of thy Painted Wings has rifled thee, 25 To bear him from his Conquer’d broken Hearts, To the next Fair and Yeilding She.
