God Made Thee Perfect, Not

Implied Subjection, But Requir'd With Gentle Sway, And By Her Yielded, By Him Best Receiv'd,- Yielded With Coy Submission, Modest Pride, And Sweet, Reluctant, Amorous Delay.

From That High Mount Of God Whence Light And Shade Spring Both, The Face Of Brightest Heaven Had Changed To Grateful Twilight.

Fame, If Not Double Fac'd, Is Double Mouth'd, And With Contrary Blast Proclaims Most Deeds; On Both His Wings, One Black, The Other White, Bears Greatest Names In His Wild Aery Flight.

O Fairest Flower! No Sooner Blown But Blasted, Soft Silken Primrose Fading Timelessly.

For To Interpose A Little Ease, Let Our Frail Thoughts Dally With False Surmise.