Tixall Poetry/To Mr E——— T———, Who Holds Selfe-Love in All Our Actions
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To
Mr E T,
Who Holds Selfe-Love in All Our Actions.
Selfe-love in all? sure I am not awake!
My dreames abuse me, or my eares mistake.
So knowne a iudgment such an errour hold!
He not believe't, though nere so often told.
If y' are in iest, I care not to dispute
For proofe, how truth can the best witt confute.
Doe you selfe-love in humble Birtha find,
Who greiv'd for feare of wronging Rhodalind,
With sober minde acknowledg'd her desert,
Fit only for her most lov'd Gondebert?
In sweete Bellario was selfe-love exprest,
Who wish'd heavens curse if't pleas'd her master best?
Examples of the same doe so abound
They helpe me not to choose, but doe confound.
Did not Queene Elnor love her husband more,
Who t' ease his paine suckt his invenom'd soare?
And that brave dame, who, following her lord,
Stept still before at sight oth' frightful sword,
Making her breast his buckler, fully prov'd,
That it was him and not herselfe she lov'd.
Say, truth with fables here you mixed see,
That shews who were, and these how we may be.
If you alleage those golden dayes are done,
Our iron age will not afford me one
Of that fam'd stamp, in all things els I yeald,
But in this cause I dare mentaine the field;
And nere goe farther, though I'me sure you'de finde,
If not mongst men, most women of this minde.
Tis not selfe-love in me, who to correct
Your erreur with my shame doe truth protect;
A blush I can afford for every line,
The subiects spotles, all the faults are mine.
My dreames abuse me, or my eares mistake.
So knowne a iudgment such an errour hold!
He not believe't, though nere so often told.
If y' are in iest, I care not to dispute
For proofe, how truth can the best witt confute.
Doe you selfe-love in humble Birtha find,
Who greiv'd for feare of wronging Rhodalind,
With sober minde acknowledg'd her desert,
Fit only for her most lov'd Gondebert?
In sweete Bellario was selfe-love exprest,
Who wish'd heavens curse if't pleas'd her master best?
Examples of the same doe so abound
They helpe me not to choose, but doe confound.
Did not Queene Elnor love her husband more,
Who t' ease his paine suckt his invenom'd soare?
And that brave dame, who, following her lord,
Stept still before at sight oth' frightful sword,
Making her breast his buckler, fully prov'd,
That it was him and not herselfe she lov'd.
Say, truth with fables here you mixed see,
That shews who were, and these how we may be.
If you alleage those golden dayes are done,
Our iron age will not afford me one
Of that fam'd stamp, in all things els I yeald,
But in this cause I dare mentaine the field;
And nere goe farther, though I'me sure you'de finde,
If not mongst men, most women of this minde.
Tis not selfe-love in me, who to correct
Your erreur with my shame doe truth protect;
A blush I can afford for every line,
The subiects spotles, all the faults are mine.