Song XXXVI. To a coy Lady

I Prithee leave this peevish fashion,
Don't desire to be high-priz'd,
Love's a Princely noble passion,
And doth scorn to be despis'd.
Though we say you're fair, you know,
We your beauty do bestow,
For our fancy makes you so.

Don't be proud 'cause we adore you,
We do't only for our pleasure,
And those parts in which you glory,
We by fancy weigh and measure.
When for Deities you go,
For Angels, or for Queens, pray know,
'Tis our fancy makes you so.

Don't suppose your Majesty
By Tyranny's best signified,
And your Angellick natures be.
Distinguish'd only by your pride.
Tyrants make Subjects rebels grow,
And pride makes Angels Dev'ls below,
And your pride may make you so.