Where red and whitest colours mix;
In which the lily, and the rose,
For Indian lake and ceruse goes.
The sun and moon by her bright eyes
Eclips’d, and darken’d in the skies, 610
Are but black patches, that she wears,
Cut into suns, and moons, and stars:
By which astrologers as well,
As those in Heav’n above, can tell
What strange events they do foreshow 615
Unto her under-world below.
Her voice, the music of the spheres,
So loud, it deafens mortals ears;
As wise philosophers have thought;
And that’s the cause we hear it not. 620
This has been done by some, who those
Th’ ador’d in rhime, would kick in prose;
And in those ribbons would have hung
On which melodiously they sung;
That have the hard fate to write best 625
Of those still that deserve it least;
It matters not how false, or forc’d:
So the best things be said o’ th’ worst:
It goes for nothing when ’tis said;
Only the arrow’s drawn to th’ bead, 630
Whether it be a swan or goose
They level at: So shepherds use
To set the same mark on the hip
Both of their sound and rotten sheep:
For wits, that carry low or wide, 635
Must be aim’d higher, or beside
The mark, which else they ne’er come nigh,
But when they take their aim awry.
But I do wonder you should choose
This way t’ attack me with your Muse, 640
As one cut out to pass your tricks on,
With fulhams of poetic fiction:
I rather hop’d I should no more
Hear from you o’ th’ gallanting score:
For hard dry-bastings us’d to prove 645
The readiest remedies of love;
Next a dry-diet: but if those fail,
Yet this uneasy loop-hol’d jail,
In which ye are hamper’d by the fetlock,
Cannot but put y’ in mind of wedlock; 650
Wedlock, that’s worse than any hole here,
If that may serve you for a cooler,
T’ allay your mettle, all agog
Upon a wife, the heavi’r clog:
Or rather thank your gentler fate, 655
That for a bruis’d or broken pate,
Has freed you from those knobs that grow
Much harder on the marry’d brow:
But if no dread can cool your courage,
From vent’ring on that dragon, marriage, 660
Yet give me quarter, and advance
To nobler aims your puissance:
Level at beauty and at wit;
The fairest mark is easiest hit.
In which the lily, and the rose,
For Indian lake and ceruse goes.
The sun and moon by her bright eyes
Eclips’d, and darken’d in the skies, 610
Are but black patches, that she wears,
Cut into suns, and moons, and stars:
By which astrologers as well,
As those in Heav’n above, can tell
What strange events they do foreshow 615
Unto her under-world below.
Her voice, the music of the spheres,
So loud, it deafens mortals ears;
As wise philosophers have thought;
And that’s the cause we hear it not. 620
This has been done by some, who those
Th’ ador’d in rhime, would kick in prose;
And in those ribbons would have hung
On which melodiously they sung;
That have the hard fate to write best 625
Of those still that deserve it least;
It matters not how false, or forc’d:
So the best things be said o’ th’ worst:
It goes for nothing when ’tis said;
Only the arrow’s drawn to th’ bead, 630
Whether it be a swan or goose
They level at: So shepherds use
To set the same mark on the hip
Both of their sound and rotten sheep:
For wits, that carry low or wide, 635
Must be aim’d higher, or beside
The mark, which else they ne’er come nigh,
But when they take their aim awry.
But I do wonder you should choose
This way t’ attack me with your Muse, 640
As one cut out to pass your tricks on,
With fulhams of poetic fiction:
I rather hop’d I should no more
Hear from you o’ th’ gallanting score:
For hard dry-bastings us’d to prove 645
The readiest remedies of love;
Next a dry-diet: but if those fail,
Yet this uneasy loop-hol’d jail,
In which ye are hamper’d by the fetlock,
Cannot but put y’ in mind of wedlock; 650
Wedlock, that’s worse than any hole here,
If that may serve you for a cooler,
T’ allay your mettle, all agog
Upon a wife, the heavi’r clog:
Or rather thank your gentler fate, 655
That for a bruis’d or broken pate,
Has freed you from those knobs that grow
Much harder on the marry’d brow:
But if no dread can cool your courage,
From vent’ring on that dragon, marriage, 660
Yet give me quarter, and advance
To nobler aims your puissance:
Level at beauty and at wit;
The fairest mark is easiest hit.
Quoth Hudibras, I’m beforehand
665
In that already, with your command
For where does beauty and high wit
But in your constellation meet?
Quoth she, What does a match imply,
But likeness and equality?
670
I know you cannot think me fit
To be th’ yoke-fellow of your wit;
Nor take one of so mean deserts,
To be the partner of your parts;
A grace which, if I cou’d believe,
675
I’ve not the conscience to receive.