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Poem by Alexander Brome
1. MIstake me not, I am not of that mind To hate all woman kind; Nor can you so my patience vex; To make my Muse blaspheme your sex, Nor with my Satyrs bite you; Though there are some in your free-State. Some things in you, who're Candidate, That he who is, or loves himself, must hate; Yet I'll not therefore slight you. For I'm a Schismatick in Love, And what makes most abhorr it, In me does more affection move, And I love the better for it. 2. I vow, I am so far from loving none, That I love every one; If fair I must, if brown she be, She's lovely, and for Sympathy, 'Cause we're alike, I love her; If tall, she's proper; and if short, She's humble, and I love her for't: Small's pretty, fat is pleasant, every sort Some graceful good discover; If young, she's pliant to the sport; And if her visage carry Gray hairs and wrinkles, yet I'll court, And so turn Antiquary. 3. Be her hair red, be her lips gray or blew, Or any other hew, Or has she but the ruins of a nose, Or but eye-sockets, I'll love those; Though scales, not skin, does clothe her, Though from her lungs, the scent that comes Does Rowt her teeth out of their gums; I'll count all these for high Encominms, Nor will I therefore loath her. There are no rules for beauty, but 'Tis as our fancies make it: Be you but kind, I'll think you fair, And all for truth shall take it.
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