The Account.

WHen all the Stars are by thee told,
(The endless Sums of heav'enly Gold)
Or when the Hairs are reckon'ed all,
From sickly Autumns Head that fall,
Or when the drops that make the Sea,
Whilst all her Sands thy Counters bee.
Thou then, and Thou alone maist prove
Th' Arithmeticean of my Love.
An hundred Loves at Athens score,
At Corinth write an hundred more.
Fair Corinth does such Beauties beare,
So few is an Escaping there.
Write then at Chios seventy three;
Write then at Lesbo's (let me see)
Write mee at Lesbos ninety down,
Full ninety Loves, and half a One.
And next to these let me present,
The faire Ionian Regiment.
And next the Carian Company,
Five hundred both Effectively.
Three hundred more at Rhodes and Crete;
Three hundred 'tis I'am sure Complete.
For arms at Crete each Face does bear,
And every Eye's and Archer there.
Go on; this stop why dost thou make?
Thou thinkst, perhaps, that I mistake.
Seems this to thee too great a Summe?
Why many a Thousand are to come;
The mighty Xerxes could not boast
Such different Nations in his Host.
On; for my Love, if thou be'st weary,
Must finde some better Secretary.
I have not yet my Persian told.
Nor yet my Syrian Loves enroll'd,
Nor Indian, nor Arabian;
Nor Cyprian Loves, nor African;
Nor Scythian, nor Italian flames;
There's a whole Map behinde of Names.
Of gentle Love i'th' temperate Zone,
And cold ones in the Frigid One,
Cold frozen Loves with which I' pine,
And parched Loves beneath the Line.