The Liberal Lover. 1662

WHat can my Mistris want? whilst I
Lay some small claim to Poetry?
With Cleopatra she shall vie.

My boasting shall not her deceive;
For Poets, Pope-like, Kingdoms give;
Nay more, can make the dead to live.

Compar'd with Poets, Kings are poor;
Kings have done much, but Poets more;
For they made Gods for Kings t' adore.

If glitt'ring Pearls seem richer prize,
I'l millions give; for my Supplies
Drop daily from Aurora's Eyes.

Rubies and Saphires shall not fail;
With red, and blue Clouds I'l prevail,
To drop 'em down in shining hail.

If I once say't, I'l surely do't;
Planets, instead of Stars, shall shoot,
And drop down Diamonds at her foot.

Of Silver, her I'l never stint;
The Moon's my Mine, and the Man in't
Shall be the Master of the Mint.

If Guinnies seem the better change,
Phoebus (my Patron) shall advance;
For Gold's made only by his glance.

For all these Riches I am poor!
Then why should I thus feign a store,
When really her self has more?

Pearls, Rubies, Saphires, she outvies,
And all the Diamonds of the Skies,
With Teeth, with Lips, with Veins, with Eyes.

My idle Fancy makes me sin;
The Moon's not current, 'tis but Tinn,
Compar'd to th' Silver of her Skin.

By these great truths I am controul'd;
My Guinies will not value-hold;
She's all one piece of Angel-Gold.