The Scrutinie. Song.

A poem by Richard Lovelace

Set By Mr. Thomas Charles.[38.1]

Why shouldst thou[38.2] sweare I am forsworn,
Since thine I vow'd to be?
Lady, it is already Morn,
And 'twas last night I swore to thee
That fond impossibility.

Have I not lov'd thee much and long,
A tedious twelve moneths[38.3] space?
I should[38.4] all other beauties wrong,
And rob thee of a new imbrace;
Should[38.5] I still dote upon thy face.

Not but all joy in thy browne haire
In[38.6] others may be found;
But I must search the black and faire,
Like skilfulle minerallists that sound
For treasure in un-plow'd-up[38.7] ground.

Then if, when I have lov'd my[38.8] round,
Thou prov'st the pleasant she;
With spoyles[38.9] of meaner beauties crown'd,
I laden will returne to thee,
Ev'n sated with varietie.

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