Not Fair.

'TIs very true, I thought you once as faire,
As women in th' Idea are.
Whatever here seems beauteous, seem'd to bee
But a faint Metaphor of Thee.
But then (methoughts) there something shin'd within,
Which cast this Lustre o're thy skin.
Nor could I choose but count it the Suns Light,
Which made this Cloud appear so bright.
But since I knew thy falshood and thy pride,
And all thy thousand faults beside;
A very Moor (methinks) plac'd near to Thee,
White, as his Teeth, would seem to bee.
So men (they say) by hells delusions led,
Have ta'ne a Succu bus to their bed;
Believe it fair, and themselves happy call,
Till the cleft Foot discovers all:
Then they start from't, half Ghosts themselves with fear;
And Devil, as 'tis, it does appear.
So since against my will I found Thee foul,
Deform'd and crooked in thy Soul,
My Reason strait did to my Senses shew,
That they might be mistaken too:
Nay when the world but knows how false you are,
There's not a man will think you faire.
Thy shape will monstrous in their fancies bee,
They'l call their Eyes as false as Thee.
Be what thou wilt; Hate will present thee so,
As Puritans do the Pope, and Papists Luther do.