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First Line: Fair doris, break thy glass, it hath perplex'd
Last Line: I die a martyr, you an heretic.
Subject(s): Beauty; Modesty

FAIR Doris, break thy glass, it hath perplex'd
With a dark comment Beauty's clearest text;
It hath not told thy face's story true,
But brought false copies to thy jealous view.
No colour, feature, lovely air or grace,
That ever yet adorn'd a beauteous face,
But thou mayst read in thine; or justly doubt
Thy glass hath been suborn'd to leave it out.
But if it offer to thy nice survey
A spot, a stain, a blemish, or decay,
It not belongs to thee: the treacherous light
Or faithless stone abuse thy credulous sight.
Perhaps the magic of thy face hath wrought
Upon th' enchanted crystal, and so brought
Fantastic shadows to delude thine eyes
With airy repercussive sorceries;
Or else th' enamour'd image pines away
For love of the fair object, and so may
Wax pale and wan, and though the substance grow
Lively and fresh, that may consume with woe.
Give then no faith to the false specular stone,
But let thy beauties by th' effects be known.
Look, sweetest Doris, on my lovesick heart,
In that true mirror see how fair thou art!
There, by Love's never-erring pencil drawn,
Shalt thou behold thy face, like th' early dawn,
Shoot through the shady covert of thy hair,
Enamelling and perfuming the calm air
With pearls and roses, till thy suns display
Their lids and let out the imprison'd day;
Whilst Delphic priests, enlight'ned by their theme,
In amorous numbers count thy golden beam,
And from Love's altars clouds of sighs arise
In smoking incense, to adore thine eyes.
If, then, love flow from beauty, as th' effect,
How canst thou the resistless cause suspect?
Who would not brand that fool, that should contend
There were no fire, where smoke and flames ascend?
Distrust is worse than scorn: not to believe
My harms, is greater wrong than not to grieve.
What cure can for my fest'ring sore be found,
Whilst thou believ'st thy beauty cannot wound?
Such humble thoughts more cruel tyrants prove
Than all the pride that e'er usurp'd in love,
For beauty's herald here denounceth war,
There her false spies betray me to a snare.
If fire disguis'd in balls of snow were hurl'd,
It unsuspected might consume the world;
Where our prevention ends, danger begins,
So wolves in sheeps', lions in asses' skins,
Might far more mischief work, because less fear'd:
Those the whole flock, these might kill all the herd.
Appear then as thou art, break through this cloud,
Confess thy beauty, though thou thence grow proud;
Be fair, though scornful; rather let me find
Thee cruel, than thus mild and more unkind:
Thy cruelty doth only me defy,
But these dull thoughts thee to thyself deny.
Whether thou mean to barter, or bestow
Thyself, 'tis fit thou thine own value know.
I will not cheat thee of thyself, nor pay
Less for thee than th' art worth; thou shalt not say
That is but brittle glass, which I have found
By strict enquiry a firm diamond.
I 'll trade with no such Indian fool as sells
Gold, pearls, and precious stones, for beads and bells;
Nor will I take a present from your hand,
Which you or prize not, or not understand.
It not endears your bounty that I do
Esteem your gift, unless you do so too:
You undervalue me, when you bestow
On me what you nor care for, nor yet know.
No, lovely Doris, change thy thoughts, and be
In love first with thyself, and then with me.
You are afflicted that you are not fair,
And I as much tormented that you are.
What I admire you scorn, what I love, hate;
Through different faiths, both share an equal fate:
Fast to the truth, which you renounce, I stick;
I die a martyr, you an heretic.

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