Though you make no return to my Passion,
	 Still I presume to Adore:
'Tis in Love but an odd Reputation,
	 Faintly repuls'd to give o're:
	 When you talk of your Duty,
	 I gaze on your Beauty,
Nor mind the dull Maxime at all;
	 Let it Reign in Cheapside,
	 With the Citizen's Bride,
It will ne'er be receiv'd in Whitehall.

What Apocryphal tales are you told?
	 By one, who wou'd make you believe,
That, because of to have, and to hold,
	 You still must be Pinn'd to his Sleeve:
	 'Tis apparent High Treason,
	 Against Love, and Reason,
Shou'd one such a Treasure engross,
	 He that knows not the Joys,
	 That attend such a Choice,
Shou'd resign to another who does.