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Richard Lovelace - Her Muffe
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                   I.
Twas not for some calm blessing to deceive,
Thou didst thy polish`d hands in shagg`d furs weave;
  It were no blessing thus obtain`d;
  Thou rather would`st a curse have gain`d,
Then let thy warm driven snow be ever stain`d.

                   II.
Not that you feared the discolo`ring cold
Might alchymize their silver into gold;
  Nor could your ten white nuns so sin,
  That you should thus pennance them in,
Each in her coarse hair smock of discipline.

                   III.
Nor, Hero-like who, on their crest still wore
A lyon, panther, leopard, or a bore,
  To looke their enemies in their herse,
  Thou would`st thy hand should deeper pierce,
And, in its softness rough, appear more fierce.

                   IV.
No, no, LUCASTA, destiny decreed,
That beasts to thee a sacrifice should bleed,
  And strip themselves to make you gay:
  For ne`r yet herald did display
A coat, where SABLES upon ERMIN lay.

                   V.
This for lay-lovers, that must stand at dore,
Salute the threshold, and admire no more;
  But I, in my invention tough,
  Rate not this outward bliss enough,
But still contemplate must the hidden muffe.
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