Hence away, thou Syren, leave me!
Pish! unclaspe these wanton armes;
Sugred words can ne'er deceive me,
(Though thou prove a thousand charmes).
Fie, fie, forbear;
No common snare
Can ever my affection chaine;
Thy painted baits,
And poor deceits,
Are all bestowed on me in vaine.
I'm no slave to such as you be;
Neither shall that snowy brest,
Rowling eye, and lip of ruby
Ever robb me of my rest!
Goe, goe, display
Thy beautie's ray
To some more soone-enamour'd swaine;
Those common wiles
Of sighs and smiles
Are all bestowed on me in vaine.
I have elsewhere vowed a dutie;
Turne away that tempting eye;
Shew me not a painted beautie;
These impostures I defie.
My spirit loathes
Where gaudy-clothes
And fained oths may love obtaine;
I love her so
Whose looks sweares No,
That all your labours will be vaine.
Can he prize the tained posies,
Which on every brest are worne;
That may plucke the virgin roses
From their never-touched thorne?
I can goe rest
On her sweet brest,
That is the pride of Cynthia's traine;
Then stay thy tongue;
Thy mermaid song
Is all bestowed on me in vaine.
Hee's a foole that basely dallies,
Where each peasant mates with him;
Shall I haunt the thronged vallies,
Whilst ther's noble hils to climbe?
No, no, though clownes
Are scar'd with frownes,
I know the best can but disdaine;
And those He prove,
So will thy love
Be all bestowed on me in vaine.
I doe scorne to vow a dutie,
Where each lustfull lad may wooe;
Give me her whose sun-like beautie
Buzzards dare not soare unto;
Shee, shee it is
Affoords that blisse
For which I would refuse no paine.
But such as you,
Fond fooles, adieu;
You seeke to captive me in vaine.
Leave me then, you Syrens, leave me!
Seeke no more to worke my harmes;
Craftie wiles cannot deceive me,
Who am proofe against your charmes;
You labour may
To lead astray
The heart that constant shall remaine;
And I the while
Will sit and smile
To see you spend your time in vaine.
