Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE EMANCIPATION OF HIS MISTRESS' PERFECTIONS, by FRANCIS BEAUMONT



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THE EMANCIPATION OF HIS MISTRESS' PERFECTIONS, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: Though by thy bounteous favor I be in
Last Line: Let it run on now: I know what it is.


Though by thy bounteous favor I be in
A paradise, where I may freely taste
Of all the virtuous pleasures which thou hast,
I, wanting knowledge, must, in all my bliss,
Err with my parents, and ask what it is.
My faith saith 'tis not Heaven; and I dare swear,
If it be Hell, no pain of sense is there.
Wert thou but fair, and no whit virtuous,
Thou wert no more to me but a fair house
Haunted with spirits, from which men do them bless,
And no man will half furnish to possess:
Or, hadst thou worth wrapped in a rivelled skin,
'Twere inaccessible. Who durst go in
To find it out? For sooner would I go
To find a pearl covered with hills of snow;
'Twere buried virtue, and thou might'st me move
To reverence the tomb, but not to love, --
No more than dotingly to cast mine eye
Upon the urn where Lucrece' ashes lie.
But thou art fair and sweet, and every good
That ever yet durst mix with flesh and blood:
The Devil ne'er saw in his fallen state
An object whereupon to ground his hate
So fit as thee; all living things but he
Love thee; how happy, then, must that man be
Whom from amongst all creatures thou dost take!
Is there a hope beyond it? Can he make
A wish to change thee for? This is my bliss,
Let it run on now: I know what it is.





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