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Poem	To make a final conquest of all me, Love did compose so sweet an Enemy, In whom both Beauties to my death agree, Joyning themselves in fatal Harmony; That while she with her Eyes my Heart does bind, She with her Voice might captivate my Mind. I could have fled from One but singly fair: My dis-intangled Soul it self might save, Breaking the curled trammels of her hair. But how should I avoid to be her Slave, Whose subtile Art invisibly can wreath My Fetters of the very Air I breath? It had been easie fighting in some plain, Where Victory might hang in equal choice. But all resistance against her is vain, Who has th' advantage both of Eyes and Voice. And all my Forces needs must be undone, She having gained both the Wind and Sun.
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