Chapter 9 No.9

Honour! that put'st our words that should be free

Into a set Formality.

Thou base Debaucher of the generous heart,

That teachest all our Looks and Actions Art;

What Love design'd a sacred Gift,

What Nature made to be possest;

Mistaken Honour, made a Theft,

For Glorious Love should be confest:

For when confin'd, all the poor Lover gains,

Is broken Sighs, pale Looks, Complaints and Pains.

Thou Foe to Pleasure, Nature's worst Disease,

Thou Tyrant over mighty Kings,

What mak'st thou here in Shepheards Cottages;

Why troublest thou the quiet Shades and Springs?

Be gone, and make thy Fam'd resort

To Princes Pallaces;

Go Deal and Chaffer in the Trading Court,

That busie Market for Phantastick Things;

Be gone and interrupt the short Retreat,

Of the Illustrious and the Great;

Go break the Politicians sleep,

Disturb the Gay Ambitious Fool,

That longs for Scepters, Crowns, and Rule,

Which not his Title, nor his Wit can keep;

But let the humble honest Swain go on,

In the blest Paths of the first rate of man;

That nearest were to Gods Alli'd,

And form'd for love alone, disdain'd all other Pride.