The Innocent Ill.

THough all thy gestures and discourses be
Coyn'd and stamp't by Modestie,
Though from thy Tongue nere slipt away
One word which Nuns at th'Altar might not say,
Yet such a sweetness, such a grace
In all thy speech appear,
That what to th'Eye a beauteous face,
That thy Tongue is to th' Ear.
So cunningly it wounds the heart,
It strikes such heat through ev'ery part,
That thou a Tempter worse then Satan art.

Though in thy thoughts scarce any Tracks have bin
So much as of Original Sin,
Such charms thy Beauty wears as might
Desires in dying confest Saints excite.
Thou with strange Adulterie
Dost in each breast a Brothel keep;
Awake all men do lust for thee,
And some enjoy Thee when they sleep.
Ne re before did Woman live,
Who to such Multitudes did give
The Root and cause of Sin, but onely Eve.

Though in thy breast so quick a Pity bee,
That a Flies Death's a wound to thee.
Though savage, and rock-hearted those
Appear, that weep not ev'en Romances woes.
Yet ne'r before was Tyrant known,
Whose rage was of so large extent,
The ills thou dost are whole thine own,
Thou'rt Principal and Instrument,
In all the deaths that come from you,
You do the treble office do
Of Iudge, of Tort'erer, and of weapon too.

Thou lovely Instrument of angry Fate,
Which God did for our faults create!
Thou Pleasant, universal Ill,
Which sweet as Health, yet like a Plague dost kill!
Thou kind, well-natur'ed Tyrannie!
Thou chaste committer of a Rape!
Thou voluntary Destinie,
Which no man Can, or Would escape!
So gentle, and so glad to spare,
So wondrous good, and wondrous faire,
(We know) e'ven the Destroying Angels are.