Epistle XXIV. To a Gentleman that fell sick of the small Pox, when he should be married

Sir,

When you view these checker'd lines and see,
How (bate the colour) like your face they be.
You'll think this sheet to be your looking-glass;
And all these spots, the Ecchoes of your face:
Wherein Disease and Love their field have pight,
To try which is more lovely Red, or White;
Like our late Souldiers, who more rage did show,
Unto the place that fed them, then their foe.

Sickness, (loves Rival) envy in the place,
Where Cupid chose to pitch his tents, your face
Went to write foul, but Cupid made it prove
Spite of his spite, the alphabet of love:
So as they strove, love serv'd him in his trim;
For as that set on you, this set on him:
And love that conquers all things, soon made known,
To him a burning greater then his own.
Accurst disease! dost thou come, crawling hither,
To separate whom Heaven had joyned together?
Hadst thou no time to vent thy rage, but this
When swelling hopes did dawn towards their bliss?
I'th inter-regnum twixt desires and joyes,
The cursed Vigil of blest holy daies!
What pitty 'tis that face where love has been
So oft, so proud to play so sweetly in;
By thy dire hand should be o'r-turned thus,
s to be made a Campus Martius;
Wherein the angry York and Lancaster,
New-vamp, and do retrive their musty stir?
As if the Red-rose and the White would be,
Where e'r they met, still at Antipathy;
A face that was as clear as day, as bright,
Should bud with stars like an enamell'd night:
Your sickness meant to turn Astronomer;
Your face the Heaven, and every spot a Star:
Or else would write an Almanack, and raise,
by those red Letters, nought but holy-daies.

Were it your Butlers face, a Man would think,
They had but been new boylings of the drink:
Or had his nose been such, one would have swore
'Twere red with anger, 'cause he drank no more:
Or had your keeper such, hee'ld sell it all
For harts-horn to make hafts of knives withall.
Or if your Cooks were such, how it would fit,
To grate your ginger, or nutmegs with it?
But why on your face? what was his design?
Was it to break the Hymeneal twine,
That was half twisted? Tush! he's much mistook;
Your love was past the Criss-cross of a look:
And your affections are of riper age,
Then now to gaze on beauties title-page;
Or barely dwell upon the face, those toyes
Are Ocean'd in the hopes of future joyes.

Then blush no more, but let your Mrs. know,
They're but Love-letters written on your brow,
Etch'd by th' Engravers hand, there she may see,
That beauty's subject to mortality:
How frail a thing it is, how vain t'adore it,
What fools are they that love or marry for it;
And that this sickness which hath curb'd you, is
But the sad prologue to your future bliss.
An Ember-week or Lent, which alwaies falls,
As Fasting-eves before your Festivals.
'Twill make you prize your joy the more when't comes,
Usher'd along by tedious Martyrdomes.
How acceptable is a plenteous boul,
When 'tis carowsed by a thirsty soul!

So have I seen the winter strip the trees,
To fit them for their vernal Liveries!
And cloath th' old Earth in gray, nip every thing,
before it rowles it self into the spring.
So has black night begot a gray-ey'd day,
So Sol does rout conspiring clouds with Ray;
As through this sickness, does your joyes come on,
And gulf your hopes in firm fruition:
When your red-rose, clubs with your Ladies white,
And as the ancient flowers did unite;
Your happiness will swell, and you will prove
The Gemini of joy, as now of love.

These things I guess not by your face, I find
Your front is not the Index of your mind:
Yet by your Phys'mony, thus much is meant,
You are not spotless, though you're innocent.
Sir if these verses go a halting pace,
They stumble in the valleys of your face.