270
Tixall Poetry.
Yet hath he one desire, nor doth that staine
The purity of love, 'tis love againe.
This the most perfectly refin'd approve;
Who roots out this anihilates his love;
It being love's very essence to desire,
T'engender the idea of his fire.
And ther's no competent reward but this,
Nor heaven, nor earth; which though he have or misse,
It neither raiseth nor puts out his flame,
That's constantly, essentially the same.
That happy accident doth only prove
His glory may be more, but not his love.
Yet boasts not of his love, nor doth pretend
A merrit of his suffrings, nor an end.
He wisheth them immortall as his love,
Which, when his body dies, finds no remove;
(Being rooted in his soule,) but doth ascend
With her, and, like her, never hath an end.
The purity of love, 'tis love againe.
This the most perfectly refin'd approve;
Who roots out this anihilates his love;
It being love's very essence to desire,
T'engender the idea of his fire.
And ther's no competent reward but this,
Nor heaven, nor earth; which though he have or misse,
It neither raiseth nor puts out his flame,
That's constantly, essentially the same.
That happy accident doth only prove
His glory may be more, but not his love.
Yet boasts not of his love, nor doth pretend
A merrit of his suffrings, nor an end.
He wisheth them immortall as his love,
Which, when his body dies, finds no remove;
(Being rooted in his soule,) but doth ascend
With her, and, like her, never hath an end.
