Poem by Alexander Brome

The Wary Woer

1.

FAith, you're mistaken, I'll not love
That face that frowns on me,
Though it be handsom, 't shall not move
My center'd soul that's far above
The magick of a paint,
That on a Devil writes a Saint:
I hate your Pictures and Imagery.
I'm no love-Sinon, nor will tamely now
Lie swadled in the trenches of your brow.

2.

Though you are witty what care I?
My danger is the more;
Nay should you boast of honesty,
Woman gives all those names the Lie:
In all you hardly can
Write after that fair copy, Man
And dabble in the steps we've gone before.
We you admire, as we do parots all
Not speaking well, but that they speak' at all.

3.

That Lass mine arms desire t'enfold,
Born in the golden age,
Guarded with Angels, but of Gold,
She that's in such a showre enroll'd
May tempt a Jove to be
Guilty of Loves Idolatry,
And make a pleasure of an Hermitage;
Though their teeth are not, if their necks wear pea•▪
A Kitchin-wench is Consort for an Earl.

4.

'Tis money makes the man, you say,
'T shall make the Woman too;
When both are clad in like aray
December rivals youthful May:
This rules the World, and this
Perfection of both Sexes is;
This Flora made a Goddess, so 'twill you:
This makes us laugh, this makes us drink and sing;
This makes the beggar trample o're his King.

1. To his Mistress (LAdy you'l wonder when you see)
2. The Leveller
3. Copernicus
4. Upon a Sign-post, set up at Skoale in Norfolk
5. To a Widow

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