Amintor's Answer

I.

If you, too frequently provoke your God ,

That God, who, merciful , forgives you, still,

You must expect, at last, to feel his rod,

His rod, the fittest scourge of head-strong will .

II.

But I, long vers'd, in women's winding ways,

Unmov'd , with patient phlegm , their follies see;

And, like men, tir'd with dirty, wint'ry days;

Wou'd wish 'twere spring , but know it cannot be.

III.

No longer, then, in spite of nature , pine;

Those tiny eyes can spare no room for tears ;

Your wand'ring dove has snatch'd the first glad sign ,

And, with the peaceful olive-branch , appears.

IV.

F OR , shou'd your tuneful clack be stricken dumb ,

More wonders wou'd arise, than you have shown;

Not Celia , only statue , would become,

But all th' astonish'd town wou'd turn to stone ,

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