I. <br />Twas not for some calm blessing to deceive, <br />Thou didst thy polish'd hands in shagg'd furs weave; <br /> It were no blessing thus obtain'd; <br /> Thou rather would'st a curse have gain'd, <br />Then let thy warm driven snow be ever stain'd. <br /> <br /> II. <br />Not that you feared the discolo'ring cold <br />Might alchymize their silver into gold; <br /> Nor could your ten white nuns so sin, <br /> That you should thus pennance them in, <br />Each in her coarse hair smock of discipline. <br /> <br /> III. <br />Nor, Hero-like who, on their crest still wore <br />A lyon, panther, leopard, or a bore, <br /> To looke their enemies in their herse, <br /> Thou would'st thy hand should deeper pierce, <br />And, in its softness rough, appear more fierce. <br /> <br /> IV. <br />No, no, LUCASTA, destiny decreed, <br />That beasts to thee a sacrifice should bleed, <br /> And strip themselves to make you gay: <br /> For ne'r yet herald did display <br />A coat, where SABLES upon ERMIN lay. <br /> <br /> V. <br />This for lay-lovers, that must stand at dore, <br />Salute the threshold, and admire no more; <br /> But I, in my invention tough, <br /> Rate not this outward bliss enough, <br />But still contemplate must the hidden muffe.<br /><br />Richard Lovelace<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/her-muffe/
