Александр Бром (Alexander Brome)

Epithalamy

1.

NAy fie, Platonicks still adoring,
The fond Chymaera's of your brain?
Still on that empty nothing poring?
And only follow what you faign?
Live in your humour, 'tis a curse
So bad, 'twere pity wish a worse.
We'll banish such conceits as those,
Since he that has enjoyment knows,
More bliss, then Plato could suppose.

2.

Cashiered woers, whose low merit
Could ne're arrive at nuptial bliss,
Turn Schismaticks in love, whose spirit
Would have none hit 'cause they do miss.
But those reproaches that they vent
Do only blaze their discontent.
Condemn'd mens words no truth can show,
And Hunters when they prove too slow,
Cry Hares are dry meat, let 'um go.

3.

Th' inamour'd youth, whose flaming breast
Makes Goddesses and Angels all;
In's contemplation finds no rest,
For all his joyes are sceptical,
At his fruition flings away
His Cloris and his Welladay,
And gladly joyns to fill our Quire.
Who to such happiness aspire
As all must envy or admire.

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