A Young Man to an Old Woman Courting Him

Peace Beldam Eve , surcease thy Suit,
There's no Temptation in such Fruit.
No rotten Medlars, whilst there be
Whole Orchards in Virginity.
Thy Stock is too much out of date
For tender Plants t'inoculate.
A Match with thee the Bridegroom fears
Would be thought Incest in his years,
Which when compar'd to thine become
Odd Money to thy Grandam Sum.
Can Wedlock know so great a Curse,
As putting Husbands out to Nurse?
How Pond and Rivers would mistake,
And cry new Almanacks for our sake?
Time sure hath wheel'd about his Year,
December meeting Janiveer .
Th' Egyptian Serpent figures Time,
And strip'd, returns into his prime.
If my Affection thou wouldst win,
First cast thy Hieroglyphick Skin.
My Modern Lips know not, alack,
The old Religion of thy Smack .
I count that Primitive Embrace,
As out of Fashion, as thy Face;
And yet so long 'tis since thy fall,
Thy Fornication's Classical.
Our Sports will differ, thou must play
Lero , and I Alphonso way.
I'm no Translator, have no vein
To turn a Woman young again;
Unless you'l grant the Taylor's due,
To see the Fore-bodies be new.
I love to wear Clothes that are flush,
Not prefacing old Rags with Plush,
Like Aldermen, or Under-shrieves
With Canvas Backs, and Velvet-Sleeves:
And just such Discord there would be
Betwixt thy Skeleton and me.
Go study Salve and Triacle, ply
Your Tenant's Leg, or his sore eye.
Thus Matrons purchase Credit, thank,
Six penny worth of Mountebank;
Or chew thy Cud on some Delight,
That thou didst taste in Eighty eight;
Or be but Bed-rid once, and then
Thoul't dream thy youthful sins agen:
But if thou needs wilt be my Spouse,
First hearken and attend my Vows.
When Ætna's fires shall undergo
The Penance of the Alps in Snow;
When Sol at one blast of his Horn
Post from the Crab to Capricorn ;
When the Heavens shuffle all in one,
The Torrid with the Frozen Zone;
When all these Contradictions meet,
Then, Sybil , thou and I will greet:
For all these Similies do hold
In my young Heat, and thy dull Cold.
Then, if a Fever be so good
A Pimp as to inflame thy Blood,
Hymen shall twist thee and thy Page,
The distinct Tropicks of Man's Age.
Well, Madam Time, be ever bald,
I'l not thy Perriwig be call'd:
I'l never be 'stead of a Lover,
An aged Chronicle's new Cover.
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