Against Absence.

MY whining Lover, what needs all
These vows of life Monastical?
Despairs, retirements, jealousies,
Aud subtile sealing up of eyes?
Come, come, be wise; return again,
A finger burnt's as great a pain;
And the same Physick, self same art
Cures that, would cure a flaming heart:
Would'st thou whilst yet the fire is in
But hold it to the fire again.
If you (Dear Sir) the plague have got,
What matter is't whether or not
They let you in the same house lie,
Or carry you abroad to die?
He whom the plague, or Love once takes,
Every Room a Pest-House makes.
Absence were good if't were but sence
That onely holds th'Intelligence:
Pure love alone no hurt would do,
But love is love, and magick too;
Brings a mistresse a thousand miles,
And the sleight of looks beguiles,
Makes her entertain thee there,
And the same time your Rival here;
And (oh! the divel) that she should
Say finer things now then she would;
So nobly Fancy doth supply
What the dull sence lets fall and die.
Beauty like mans old enemy's known
To tempt him most when hee's alone:
The ayre of some wild o'regrown wood,
Or pathlesse Grove is the Boyes food.
Return then back, and feed thine eye,
Feed all thy sences, and feast high.
Spare dyet is the cause Love lasts,
For Surfets sooner kill than Fasts.