Some that have deeper digg'd love's Myne than I,
Say, where his centrique happinesse doth lie;
I have lov'd, and got, and told,
But should I love, get, tell, till I were old,
I should not finde that hidden mysterie.
Oh, 'tis imposture all:
And as no chymique yet th'Elixir got,
But glorifies his pregnant pot,
If by the way to him befall
Some odoriferous thing, or medicinall,
So, lovers dreame a rich and long delight,
But get a winter-seeming summer's night.
Our ease, our thrift, our honor, and our day,
Shall we for this vaine Bubles 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 Bridegroomes play?
That loving wretch that sweares
'Tis not the bodies marry, but the mindes,
Which he in her Angelique findes,
Would swear as justly that he hears,
In that dayes rude hoarse minstralsey, the spheares.
Hope not for minde in women; at their best
Sweetnesse and wit, they'are but Mummy, possest.