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Strive Not, Vain Lover by Richard Lovelace |
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I.
Strive not, vain lover, to be fine;
Thy silk's the
silk-worm's, and not thine:
You lessen to a fly your
mistriss' thought,
To think it may be in a cobweb
caught.
What, though her thin transparent lawn
Thy heart in a strong net hath drawn:
Not all the
arms the god of fire ere made
Can the soft bulwarks
of nak'd love invade.
II.
Be truly fine,
then, and yourself dress
In her fair soul's
immac'late glass.
Then by reflection you may have
the bliss
Perhaps to see what a true fineness is;
When all your gawderies will fit
Those only that
are poor in wit.
She that a clinquant outside doth
adore,
Dotes on a gilded statue and no more.
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