the Delight. 
  High’r Pow’rs rule us, our Selves can nothing do,
    Who made us Love, hath made Love lawful too. 
  It was not Love, but Love transform’d to Vice,
    Ravish’d by Envious Avarice,
  Made Woman first Impropriate; all were free;
    Inclosures Mens Inventions be. 
  I’th Golden Age, no Action cou’d be found
    For Trespass on my Neighbour’s ground: 
  ’Twas just, with any Fair to mix our Blood;
    The best is most diffusive Good. 
  She that confines her Beams to one Mans sight,
    Is a Dark Lanthorn to a Shining Light. 
  Say, Does the Virgin Spring less Chaste appear,
    ’Cause many Thirsts are quenched there? 
  Or have you not with the same Odours met,
    When more then One have smelt your Violet
  The Phoenix is not angry at her nest,
    ’Cause her Perfumes makes others Blest: 
  Tho’ Incense to th’ Immortal Gods be meant,
    Yet Mortals rival in the Scent. 
  Man is the Lord of Creatures; yet we see
    That all his Vassals Loves are free;
  The severe Wedlock-Fetters do not bind
    The Pard’s inflam’d and Am’rous Mind,
  But that he may be like a Bridegroom led
    Ev’n to the Royal Lion’s Bed. 
  The Birds made for a Year their Loves Confine,
    But make new Choice each Valentine. 
  If our Affections then more servile be
    Than are our Slaves, where’s Mans Sov’raignity? 
  Why then by pleasing more, should you less please,
    And spare your sweets, being more sweet than these? 
  If the fresh Trunk have Sap enough to give,
    That each insertive Branch may live;
  The Gardner grafts not only Apples there,
    But adds the Warden and the Pear;
  The Peach and Apricock together grow,
    The Cherry and the Damson too;
  Till he hath made, by Skilful Husbandry,
    An intire Orchard of one Tree. 
  So least our Paradise Perfection want,
    We may inoculate and plant. 
  What’s Conscience, but a Beldams Midnight Theam;
    Or Nodding Nurses idle Dream? 
  So feign’d as are the Goblins, Elves and Fairies,
    To watch their Orchard’s and their Daries. 
  For who can tell when first her Reign begun? 
    I’th’ State of Innocence was none: 
  And since large Conscience (as the Proverb shows)
    In the same sense as bad one goes;
  The Less, the Better then; whence this will fall,
    He’s perfect that hath none at all. 
  Suppose it be a Vertue rich and pure;
    ’Tis not for Spring or Summer sure;
  Nor yet for Autumn; Love must have his Prime,
    His Warmer Hearts, and Harvest time. 
  Till we have flourish’d, grown, & reap’d our Wishes. 
    What Conscience dares oppose our Kisses? 
  But when Time’s colder hand leades us near home
    Then let that Winter-Vertue come: 
  Frost is till then Prodigious; We may do
    What Youth, and Pleasure Prompts us to.