Metin
In all that specious figure which you see,
The least, least part of her own self is she;
In vain for her you love, amidst such cost,
You search; the mistress in the dress is lost.
Take her disrob'd, her real self surprise,
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I'll trust you then for cure, to your own eyes.
(Yet have I known this very rule to fail,
And beauty most, when stript of art prevail.)
Steal to her closet, her close tiring place,
While she makes up her artificial face.
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All colours of the rainbow you'll discern,
Washes and paints, and what you're sick to learn,
I now should treat of what may pall desire,
And quench in love's own element the fire;
For all advantages you ought to make,
385
And arms from love's own magazine to take:
But modesty forbids at full extent
To prosecute this luscious argument,
Which, to prevent your blushes, I shall leave
For your own fancy better to conceive,
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