Or what but riches is there known,
Which man can solely call his own;
In which no creature goes his half,
Unless it be to squint and laugh?

I do confess, with goods and land,
I'd have a wife at second-hand?

And such you are: nor is 't your person
My stomach's set so sharp and fierce on';
But 'tis (your better part) your riches,
That my enamour'd heart bewitches;
Let me your fortune but possess,
And settle your person how to please,
Or make it o'er in trust to th' devil,

You'll find me reasonable and civil.

Quoth she, I like this plainness better
Than false mock-passion, speech, or letter,
Or any seat of qualm or swooning,
But hanging of yourself, or drowning:
Your only way with me to break

Your mind, is breaking of your neck;
For as when merchants break, o'erthrown
Like nine-pins, they strike others down;
So that would break my heart, which done,
My tempting fortune is your own.

470

475

480'

485

490

These are but trifles: ev'ry lover
Will damn himself over and over,
And greater matters undertake

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;
That's to destroy, and not to prove:
As if a man should be dissected,
To find what part is disaffected.

Your better way is to make over

In trust, your fortune to your lover:
Trust is a trial; if it break,

505

'Tis not so desp'rate as a neck:

510

Beside, th' experiment's more certain;

Men venture necks to gain a fortune:
The soldier does it ev'ry day

(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,
Slight pirates, rocks, and storms, for gain.
This is the way I 'dvise you to;

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:
Give but yourself one gentle swing

For trial, and I'll cut the string;
Or give that rev'rend head a maul,
Or two, or three, against a wall;
To show you are a man of mettle,
And I'll engage myself to settle.

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.
Quoth she, The matter 's not so far gone
As you suppose; two words to a bargain;
That may be done, and time enough,
When you have given downright proof:
And yet 'tis no fantastic pique

I have to love, nor coy dislike:
'Tis no implicit, nice aversion

T' your conversation, mien, or person;
But a just fear, lest you should prove
False and perfidious in love:

For if I thought you could be true,
I could love twice as much as you.

Quoth he, My faith is adamantine
As chains of destiny, I'll maintain;
True as Apollo ever spoke,

Or oracle from heart of oak:

And if you'll give my flame but vent,
Now in close hugger-mugger pent,
And shine upon me but benignly,

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.
I'll carve your name on barks of trees,
With true love's knots and flourishes;
That shall infuse eternal spring,'
And everlasting flourishing;

Drink ev'ry letter on 't in stum,

And make it bright champagne become.

Where-e'er you tread, your foot shall set
The primrose and the violet ;

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;
Only our love shall still survive,
New worlds and natures to outlive;
And like to heralds' moons, remain

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
To catch me with poetic rapture,

580

585