"They say you're angry"
di Abraham Cowley (1618-1667)

They say you're angry, and rant mightily,
Because I love the same as you.
Alas! you're very rich, 'tis true,
But prithee, fool! what's that to love and me?
You've lands and money, let that serve,
And know you're more by that than you deserve.
When next I see my fair one, she shall know
How worthless thou art of her bed;
And wretch! I'll strike thee dumb and dead
With noble verse not understood by you;
Whilst thy sole rhet'ric shall be,
"Jointure" and "jewels" and "our friends agree."
Pox of your friends that dote and domineer,
Lovers are better friends than they;
Let's those in other things obey,
The fates, and stars, and gods must govern here.
Vain names of blood! in love let none
Advise with any blood but with their own.
'Tis that which bids me this bright maid adore,
No other thought has had access!
Did she now beg, I'd love no less,
And were she an empress, I should love no more;
Were she as just and true to me,
Ah, simple soul! what would become of thee?