80
So truest oaths are still most tough,
And though they bow, are breaking proof. 
Then wherefore should they not b’ allow’d
In love a greater latitude? 
For as the law of arms approves 85
All ways to conquest, so should love’s;
And not be ty’d to true or false,
But make that justest that prevails
For how can that which is above
All empire, high and mighty love, 90
Submit its great prerogative
To any other power alive? 
Shall love, that to no crown gives place,
Become the subject of a case? 
The fundamental law of nature, 95
Be over-rul’d by those made after? 
Commit the censure of its cause
To any but its own great laws? 
Love, that’s the world’s preservative, 100
That keeps all souls of things alive;
Controuls the mighty pow’r of fate,
And gives mankind a longer date;
The life of nature, that restores
As fast as time and death devours;
To whose free-gift the world does owe, 105
Not only earth, but heaven too;
For love’s the only trade that’s driven,
The interest of state in heav’n,
Which nothing but the soul of man
Is capable to entertain. 110
For what can earth produce, but love
To represent the joys above? 
Or who but lovers can converse,
Like angels, by the eye-discourse? 
Address and compliment by vision; 115
Make love and court by intuition? 
And burn in amorous flames as fierce
As those celestial ministers? 
Then how can any thing offend,
In order to so great an end? 120
Or heav’n itself a sin resent,
That for its own supply was meant? 
That merits, in a kind mistake,
A pardon for th’ offence’s sake. 
Or if it did not, but the cause 125
Were left to th’ injury at laws,
What tyranny can disapprove
There should be equity in love;
For laws that are inanimate,
And feel no sense of love or hate, 130
That have no passion of their own,
Nor pity to be wrought upon,
Are only proper to inflict
Revenge on criminals as strict
But to have power to forgive, 135
Is empire and prerogative;
And ’tis in crowns a nobler gem
To grant a pardon than condemn. 
Then since so few do what they ought,
‘Tis great t’ indulge a well-meant fau’t. 140
For why should he who made address,
All humble ways, without success,
And met with nothing, in return,
But insolence, affronts, and scorn,
Not strive by wit to countermine, 145
And bravely carry his design? 
He who was us’d so unlike a soldier,
Blown up with philters of love-powder?