Upon His Constant Mistresse
She’s not the fairest of her name,
But yet she conquers more than all the race,
For she hath other motives to inflame,
Besides a lovely face.
There’s Wit and Constancy
And Charms, that strike the soule more than the Eye.
’Tis no easie lover knowes how to discover
Such Divinity.
And yet she is an easie book,
Written in plain language for the meaner wit,
A stately garb, and [yet] a gracious look,
With all things justly fit.
But age will undermine
This glorious outside, that appeares so fine,
When the common Lover
Shrinks and gives her over,
Then she’s onely mine.
To the Platonick that applies
His clear addresses onely to the mind;
The body but a Temple signifies,
Wherein the Saints inshrin’d,
To him it is all one,
Whether the walls be marble, or rough stone;
Nay, in holy places, which old time defaces,
More devotion’s shown.