No springing Beauty scapes my Dart

No springing Beauty scapes my Dart,
And ev'ry ripe one wounds my Heart;
Thus whilst I wound, I wounded am,
And, firing others, turn to flame,
To shew how far Love can combine
The Mortal part with the Divine.

Faith, quit thine Empire, and come down,
That thou and I may share the Crown,
I've tri'd the worst thy Arms can doe,
Come then, and taste my power too,
Which (howsoe'er it may fall short)
Will doubtless prove the better sport.

Yet do not; for in Field and Town,
The Females are so loving grown,
So kind, or else so lustfull, we
Can neither err, though neither see;
Keep then thine own Dominions, Lad,
Two Loves would make all Women mad.