---

John Suckling - If you refuse me once, and think again
Work rating: Low

If you refuse me once, and think again,
             I will complain.
     You are deceiv`d, love is no work of art,
             It must be got and born,
             Not made and worn,
     By every one that hath a heart.

     Or do you think they more than once can die,
             Whom you deny?
     Who tell you of a thousand deaths a day,
           Like the old poets feign
           And tell the pain
   They met, but in the common way?

   Or do you think `t too soon to yield,
           And quit the field?
   Nor is that right, they yield that first entreat;
           Once one may crave for love,
           But more would prove
   This heart too little, that too great.

   Oh that I were all soul, that I might prove
       For you as fit a love
   As you are for an angel; for I know,
   None but pure spirits are fit loves for you.

   You are all ethereal; there`s in you no dross,
       Nor any part that`s gross.
   Your coarsest part is like a curious lawn,
   The vestal relics for a covering drawn.

   Your other parts, part of the purest fire
       That e`er Heav`n did inspire,
   Makes every thought that is refin`d by it
   A quintessence of goodness and of wit.

   Thus have your raptures reach`d to that degree
       In love`s philosophy,
   That you can figure to yourself a fire
   Void of all heat, a love without desire.

   Nor in divinity do you go less;
       You think, and you profess,
   That souls may have a plenitude of joy,
   Although their bodies meet not to employ.

   But I must needs confess, I do not find
       The motions of my mind
   So purified as yet, but at the best
   My body claims in them an interest.

   I hold that perfect joy makes all our parts
       As joyful as our hearts.
   Our senses tell us, if we please not them,
   Our love is but a dotage or a dream.

   How shall we then agree? you may descend,
       But will not, to my end.
   I fain would tune my fancy to your key,
   But cannot reach to that obstructed way.

   There rests but this, that whilst we sorrow here,
       Our bodies may draw near;
   And, when no more their joys they can extend,
   Then let our souls begin where they did end.
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.