To T. H. a Lady resembling my Mistresse.

FAyre copie of my Celia's face,
Twin of my soule, thy perfect grace
Claymes in my love an equall place.

Disdaine not a divided heart,
Though all be hers, you shall have part;
Love is not tyde to rules of art.

For as my soule first to her flew,
Yet stay'd with me; so now 'tis true
It dwells with her, though fled to you.

Then entertaine this wandring guest,
And if it love, allow it rest;
It left not, but …ooke the nest.

Nor thinke my love, or your faire eyes
Cheaper 'cause from the sympathise
You hold with her, these flames arise,

To Lead, or Brasse, or some such bad
Mettall, a Princes stamp may adde
That valew, which it never had,

But to the pure refined Ore;
The stamp of Kings imparts no more
Worth, then the mettall held before,

Only the Image gives the rate
To Subjects, in a forraine State
'Tis priz'd as much for its owne waight.

So though all other hearts resigne
To your pure worth, yet you have mine
Only because you are her coyne.