I Perceive Affection Makes A Fool Of

I Feel My Griefs Too, And There Scarce Is Ground Upon My Flesh T'inflict Another Wound. Yet Dare I Not Complain, Or Wish For Death With Holy Paul; Lest It Be Thought The Breath Of Discontent; Or That These Prayers Be For Weariness Of Life, Not Love Of Thee.

There Is No Bounty To Be Showed To Such As Have Real Goodness: Bounty Is A Spice Of Virtue; And What Virtuous Act Can Take Effect On Them That Have No Power Of Equal Habitude To Apprehend It?

Still To Be Neat, Still To Be Drest, As You Were Going To A Feast, Still To Be Powder'd, All Perfum'd. Lady, It Is To Be Presumed, Though Art's Hid Causes Are Not Found, All Is Not Sweet, All Is Not Sound.

I Have No Urns, No Dusty Monuments; No Broken Images Of Ancestors, Wanting An Ear, Or Nose; No Forged Tales Of Long Descents, To Boast False Honors From.

And Where She Went, The Flowers Took Thickest Root, As She Had Sow'd Them With Her Odorous Foot.