A Song To Amoret

If I were dead, and, in my place,

Some fresher youth designed

To warm thee, with new fires; and grace

Those arms I left behind:

Were he as faithful as the Sun,

That's wedded to the Sphere;

His blood as chaste and temperate run,

As April's mildest tear;

Or were he rich; and, with his heap

And spacious share of earth,

Could make divine affection cheap,

And court his golden birth;

For all these arts, I'd not believe

(No! though he should be thine!),

The mighty Amorist could give

So rich a heart as mine!

Fortune and beauty thou might'st find,

And greater men than I;

But my true resolved mind

They never shall come nigh.

For I not for an hour did love,

Or for a day desire,

But with my soul had from above

This endless holy fire.