Richard Lovelace(1618–1658)
To Lucasta, Going to the Wars
Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,
T h a t from the n u n n e r y
Of thy c h a s t e breast and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.
True, a n e w mistress n o w I c h a s e ,
T h e f i r s t f o e i n t h e f i e l d ;
A n d w i t h a stronger faith e m b r a c e
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this i n c o n s t a n c y is s u c h
As you too shall adore;
I c o u l d not love thee, dear, so m u c h ,
Loved I n o t h o n o r more.