The Perfect Lover.
He cannot worthily be styled a lover,
That will his noble enterprise give over
For any opposition, or who is
Too covetous of comforts or of blis:
For Tis meane love, meerly by favours made,
That growes ith sunshine, withers in the shade.
A true and perfect lover in distress
Stands firme, nor is he puft with happiness.
He aymes at no reward, nor vainly affects
Favours, nor for disfavour disrespects.
He rather flyes his ends, since by their gaine,
He loseth all the glory of his paine.
He doth not love whom accidents can move,
Or hath a reason but his love to love.
For he that truly loves can ne're reflect
On his owne interest, but ineffect
Transform'd so perfectly in what he loves,
That by her motion, not his owne, he moves.
He hath no will but hers, and understands
All things as she conceives them or comands.
He vallewes nothing but at her esteeme,
And so himselfe; nor strives he so to seeme,
Although his owne in nothing, for his zeale
Tells him 'tis merrit, merrit to conceale,
Which makes him practise art to hide his paine,
But still his eyes make that ambition vaine;
For though false flames may be within supprest,
True fires are not contained within a breast.
So that who loves must vent flames through his eyes,
Sigh, flame, or burn a smother'd sacrifice.
His thoughts, words, actions, all are in excess,
For true love hath no measures which express.
Strange force in love! but more that they should prove
Madnes to judgment, reason to his love.
He apprehends no dangers, nor retreats
At any difficultyes, no deceipts
Molest nor injure him, for his owne fire
Is his owne happiness, and its owne hire.
Yet hath he one desire, nor doth that staine
The purity of love, 'tis love againe.
This the most perfectly refin'd approve;
Who roots out this anihilates his love;
It being love's very essence to desire,
T'engender the idea of his fire.
And ther's no competent reward but this,
Nor heaven, nor earth; which though he have or misse,
It neither raiseth nor puts out his flame,
That's constantly, essentially the same.
That happy accident doth only prove
His glory may be more, but not his love.
Yet boasts not of his love, nor doth pretend
A merrit of his suffrings, nor an end.
He wisheth them immortall as his love,
Which, when his body dies, finds no remove;
(Being rooted in his soule,) but doth ascend
With her, and, like her, never hath an end.
That will his noble enterprise give over
For any opposition, or who is
Too covetous of comforts or of blis:
For Tis meane love, meerly by favours made,
That growes ith sunshine, withers in the shade.
A true and perfect lover in distress
Stands firme, nor is he puft with happiness.
He aymes at no reward, nor vainly affects
Favours, nor for disfavour disrespects.
He rather flyes his ends, since by their gaine,
He loseth all the glory of his paine.
He doth not love whom accidents can move,
Or hath a reason but his love to love.
For he that truly loves can ne're reflect
On his owne interest, but ineffect
Transform'd so perfectly in what he loves,
That by her motion, not his owne, he moves.
He hath no will but hers, and understands
All things as she conceives them or comands.
He vallewes nothing but at her esteeme,
And so himselfe; nor strives he so to seeme,
Although his owne in nothing, for his zeale
Tells him 'tis merrit, merrit to conceale,
Which makes him practise art to hide his paine,
But still his eyes make that ambition vaine;
For though false flames may be within supprest,
True fires are not contained within a breast.
So that who loves must vent flames through his eyes,
Sigh, flame, or burn a smother'd sacrifice.
His thoughts, words, actions, all are in excess,
For true love hath no measures which express.
Strange force in love! but more that they should prove
Madnes to judgment, reason to his love.
He apprehends no dangers, nor retreats
At any difficultyes, no deceipts
Molest nor injure him, for his owne fire
Is his owne happiness, and its owne hire.
Yet hath he one desire, nor doth that staine
The purity of love, 'tis love againe.
This the most perfectly refin'd approve;
Who roots out this anihilates his love;
It being love's very essence to desire,
T'engender the idea of his fire.
And ther's no competent reward but this,
Nor heaven, nor earth; which though he have or misse,
It neither raiseth nor puts out his flame,
That's constantly, essentially the same.
That happy accident doth only prove
His glory may be more, but not his love.
Yet boasts not of his love, nor doth pretend
A merrit of his suffrings, nor an end.
He wisheth them immortall as his love,
Which, when his body dies, finds no remove;
(Being rooted in his soule,) but doth ascend
With her, and, like her, never hath an end.