To One That Asked Me Why I Lov’d J.G.

Why do I love? Go, ask the Glorious Sun

Why every day it round the world doth run;

Ask Thames and Tiber, why they Ebb and Flow:

Ask Damask Roses why in June they blow;

Ask Ice and Hail, the reason, why they’re Cold:

Decaying Beauties, why they will grow Old

They’ll tell thee, Fate, that every thing doth move,

Inforces them to this, and me to Love.

There is no Reason for our Love or Hate;

’Tis irresistible, as Death or Fate;

’Tis not his face; I’ve sence enough to see,

That is not good, though doated on by me;

Not is’t his Tongue, that has this Conquest won;

For that at least is equall’d by my own:

His Carriage can to none obliging be,

’Tis Rude, Affected, full of Vanity:

Strangely Ill-natur’d, Peevish and Unkind,

Unconstant, False, to Jealousie inclin’d,

His Temper cou’d not have so great a Pow’r,

’Tis mutable, and changes every hour:

Those vigorous Years that Women so Adore,

Are past in him: he’s twice my Age, and more;

And yet I love this false, this worthless Man

With all the Passion that a Woman can;

Doat on his Imperfections, though I spy

Nothing to Love; I Love, and know not why.

Since ’tis Decreed in the dark Book of Fate

That I shou’d Love, and he shou’d be ingrate.