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TO LUCASTA ON GOING TO THE WaRS.
Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery Of your chaste breast and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field, And, with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore ; I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not Honour more.
Out upon it, I have loved Three whole days together,
And am like to love three more— If it prove fine weather. » • • •
Had it any been but she,
And that very face, There had been at least, ere this,
A dozen in her place.
False tho' she be to me and love,
I'll not pursue revenge ; For still the charmer I approve,
Tho' I deplore her change.
In hours of bliss we oft have met, They could not always last;
And though the present I regret, I'm grateful for the past.