To one that asked me why I loved J. G.

WHY do I love? go ask the glorious sun

Why every day it round the world doth run:

Ask Thames and Tiber why they ebb and flow:

Ask damask roses why in June they blow:

Ask ice and hail the reason why they’re cold:

Decaying beauties, why they will grow old:

They’ll tell thee, Fate, that everything doth move,

Inforces them to this, and me to love.

There is no reason for our love or hate,

’Tis irresistible as Death or Fate;

’Tis not his face; I’ve sense enough to see,

That is not good, though doated on by me:

Nor is’t his tongue, that has this conquest won,

For that at least is equalled by my own:

His carriage can to none obliging be,

’Tis rude, affected, full of vanity:

Strangely ill natur’d, peevish and unkind,

Unconstant, false, to jealousy inclin’d:

His temper could not have so great a power,

’Tis mutable, and changes every hour:

Those vigorous years that women so adore

Are past in him: he ’s twice my age and more;

And yet I love this false, this worthless man,

With all the passion that a woman can;

Doat on his imperfections, though I spy

Nothing to love; I love, and know not why.

Since ’tis decreed in the dark book of Fate,

That I should love, and he should be ingrate.