Some froward heretickes in love ther bee,
Wilfull abusers of his diety;
Whose weake opinions, and whose feavorish flame,
Pretend his right, but doe abuse his name.
Such are the idle likers of a face,
Who leave the soule for the fantastick case;
Which, though to day, like some bright shrine of art,
Th' amased gazers bend to; deaths cold dart
May ere to morrow so deforme, dismay'd
The adorer stands, of what he lov'd afray'd.
Ah! then who would this busy nothing prise,
No sooner lik'd, but vanish'd from our eyes!
Yet this unlucky passion is renewed
As oft as some faire and new prospect's vew'd.
How falsely these usurpe a lovers name,
Who merit rather what the abused dame
Gave the unconstant Pamphilus, new smart
For every change of his removing hart.
And is not thers, like his vane exersise,
Who lost his mispent time in killing flies?
Since the pursute of beuty nothing gains,
When the reward is never worth the paines.
Tis only they with iustice may pretend
A lasting ioy, whose love can know noe end.
These are the wise admirers of the soule,
And these Fame only Lovers does inrole:
Nor heat nor cold they feele, noe change of state,
Who all their thoughts to this doe consecrate.
For as that is for ever, so ther flame,
The obiect one, the passion is the same.
Then choose, fraile mortals, which you'd rather be
Joy'd for a while, or pleas'd eternally.