Song VII. To his Mistress

Why dost thou frown my dear, on me?
Come change that angry face.
What though I kist that Prodigie,
And did her ugly limbs embrace?
'Twas only 'cause thou wert in place.

Had I suck't poyson from her breath,
One kiss could set me free:
Thy lip's an Antidote 'gainst Death;
Nor would I ever wish to be
Cur'd of a sickness but by thee.

The little birds for dirt repair
Down from the purer skie,
And shall not I kiss foul and fair?
Wilt thou give Birds more pow'r than I?
Fye, 'tis a scrupulous nicety.

When all the World I've rang'd about,
All beauties else to spy,
And, at the last, can find none out,
Equal to thee in beauty; I
Will make thee my sole Deity.