1 Vaile loue mine eyes, O hide from me
The plagues that charge the curious minde :
If beauty priuate will not be,
Suffice it yet that she proues kinde.
Who can vsurp heau'ns light alone ?
Stars were not made to shine on one.
2 Griefes past recure fooles try to heale,
That greater harmes on lesse inflict :
The pure offend by too much zeale,
Affection should not be too strict.
Hee that a true embrace will finde,
To beauties faults must still be blinde.
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