Or what but riches is there known, I do confess, with goods and land, And such you are: nor is 't your person You'll find me reasonable and civil. Quoth she, I like this plainness better Your mind, is breaking of your neck; 470 475 480' 485 490 These are but trifles: ev'ry lover For a less worthy mistress' sake: Yet they're the only ways to prove 495 Th' unfeign'd realities of love; For he that hangs, or beats out's brains, The devil's in him if he feigns. Quoth Hudibras, the way's too rough For mere experiment and proof; 500 It is no jesting trivial matter, To swing i' th' air, or douce in water, And, like a water-witch, try love; Your better way is to make over In trust, your fortune to your lover: 505 'Tis not so desp'rate as a neck: 510 Beside, th' experiment's more certain; Men venture necks to gain a fortune: (Eight to the week) for six-pence pay: Your pettifoggers, damn their souls, To share with knaves in cheating fools: And merchants, vent'ring through the main, 515 Trust me, and see what I will do. 520 Quoth she, I should be loath to run Myself all th' hazard, and you none; Which must be done, unless some deed Of yours aforesaid do precede: For trial, and I'll cut the string; Quoth he, My head's not made of brass, As Friar Bacon's noddle was ; Nor (like the Indian's skull) so tough, That, authors say, 't was musket-proof: As it had need to be, to enter As yet on any new adventure: You see what bangs it hath endur'd, That would, before new feats, be cur'd: 525 530 535 But if that's all you stand upon, Here strike me luck, it shall be done. I have to love, nor coy dislike: T' your conversation, mien, or person; For if I thought you could be true, Quoth he, My faith is adamantine Or oracle from heart of oak: And if you'll give my flame but vent, 540 545 550 555 With that one, and that other pigsney, 560 The sun and day shall sooner part, Than love or you shake off my heart; The sun, that shall no more dispense His own, but your bright influence. Drink ev'ry letter on 't in stum, And make it bright champagne become. Where-e'er you tread, your foot shall set 565 570 All spices, perfumes, and sweet powders, Shall borrow from your breath their odours; Nature her charter shall renew, 575 And take all lives of things from you; The world depend upon your eye, And when you frown upon it, die; All crescents, without change or wane. Hold, hold, quoth she, no more of this, Sir Knight, you take your aim amiss: For you will find it a hard chapter 580 585 |