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Henry King - To his unconstant Friend
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But say thou very woman, why to me 
This fit of weakness and inconstancie? 
What forfeit have I made of word or vow, 
That I am rack`t on thy displeasure now? 
If I have done a fault I do not shame 
To cite it from thy lips, give it a name: 
I ask the banes, stand forth, and tell me why 
We should not in our wonted loves comply? 
Did thy cloy`d appetite urge thee to trie 
If any other man could love as I? 
I see friends are like clothes, lad up whil`st new, 
But after wearing cast, though nere so true. 
Or did thy fierce ambition long to make 
Some Lover turn a martyr for thy sake? 
Thinking thy beauty had deserv`d no name 
Unless some one do perish in that flame: 
Upon whose loving dust this sentence lies, 
Here`s one was murther`d by his Mistriss eyes. 
Or was`t because my love to thee was such, 
I could not choose but blab it? swear how much 
I was thy slave, and doting let thee know, 
I better could my self then thee forgo. 
Hearken ye men that ere shall love like me, 
Ile give you counsel gratis: if you be 
Possest of what you like, let your fair friend 
Lodge in your bosom, but no secrets send 
To seek their lodging in a female brest; 
For so much is abated of your rest. 
The Steed that comes to understand his strength 
Growes wild, and casts his manager at length: 
And that tame Lover who unlocks his heart 
Unto his Mistriss, teaches her an art 
To plague himself; shews her the secret way 
How She may tyrannize another day. 
And now my fair unkindness, thus to thee; 
Mark how wise Passion and I agree: 
Hear and be sorry for`t. I will not die 
To expiate thy crime of levitie: 
I walk (not cross-arm`d neither) eat, and live, 
Yea live to pity thy neglect, not grieve 
That thou art from thy faith and promise gone, 
Nor envy him who by my loss hath won. 
Thou shalt perceive thy changing Moon-like fits 
Have not infected me, or turn`d my wits 
To Lunacie. I do not mean to weep 
When I should eat, or sigh when I should sleep; 
I will not fall upon my pointed quill, 
Bleed ink and Poems, or invention spill 
To contrive Ballads, or weave Elegies 
For Nurses wearing when the infant cries. 
Nor like th` enamour`d Tristrams of the time, 
Despair in prose, and hang my self in rhime. 
Nor thither run upon my verses feet, 
Where I shall none but fools or mad-men meet, 
Who mid`st the silent shades, and Myrtle walks, 
Pule and do penance for their Mistress faults. 
I`m none of those poetick male-contents 
Born to make paper dear with my laments: 
Or wild Orlando that will rail and vex, 
And for thy sake fall out with all the sex. 
No, I will love again, and seek a prize 
That shall redeem me from thy poor despise. 
Ile court my fortune now in such a shape 
That will no faint die, nor starv`d colour take. 
Thus launch I off with triumph from thy shore, 
To which my last farewell; for never more 
Will I touch there. I put to Sea again 
Blown with the churlish wind of thy disdain. 
Nor will I stop this course till I have found 
A Coast that yields safe harbour, and firm ground. 
Smile ye Love-Starres; wing`d with desire I fly,
To make my wishes full discovery: 
Nor doubt I but for one that proves like you, 
I shall find ten as fair, and yet more true.
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