Lines Have Their Linings, And Books Their Buckram.

If wounds in clothes Cuts calls his rags, 'tis clear
His linings are the matter running there.

Who with thy leaves shall wipe, at need,
The place where swelling piles do breed;
May every ill that bites or smarts
Perplex him in his hinder parts.

Away with silks, away with lawn,
I'll have no scenes or curtains drawn;
Give me my mistress as she is,
Dress'd in her nak'd simplicities;
For as my heart e'en so mine eye
Is won with flesh, not drapery.

To his book's end this last line he'd have placed:
Jocund his muse was, but his life was chaste.

Nis he makes verses; but the lines he writes
Serve but for matter to make paper kites.

The bound, almost, now of my book I see,
But yet no end of these therein, or me:
Here we begin new life, while thousands quite
Are lost, and theirs, in everlasting night.