UPON HIS LEAVING HIS MISTRESS by JOHN WILMOT

'Tis not that I am weary grown
Of being yours, and yours alone;
But with what face can I incline
To damn you to be only mine?
You, whom some kinder power did fashion,
By merit and by inclination,
The joy at least of one whole nation.

Let meaner spirits of your sex
With humbler aims their thoughts perplex,
And boast if by their arts they can
Contrive to make one happy man;
Whilst, moved by an impartial sense,
Favors like nature you dispense
With universal influence.

See, the kind seed-receiving earth
To every grain affords a birth.
On her no showers unwelcome fall;
Her willing womb retains 'em all.
And shall my Celia be confined?
No! Live up to thy mighty mind,
And be the mistress of mankind.

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