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PARADOX That it is best for a Young Maid to marry an Old Man

Fair one, why cannot you an old man love?

He may as useful, and more constant prove.

Experience shews you that maturer years Are a security against those fears Youth will expose you to; whose wild desire As it is hot, so 'tis as rash as fire.

Mark how the blaze extinct in ashes lies,

Leaving no brand nor embers when it dies Which might the flame renew: thus soon consumes Youths wandring heat, and vanishes in fumes.

When ages riper love unapt to stray Through loose and giddy change of objects, may In your warm bosom like a cynder lie,

Quickned and kindled by your sparkling eie.

Tis not deni'd, there are extremes in both Which may the fancie move to like or loath:

Yet of the two you better shall endure To marry with the Cramp then Calenture.

Who would in wisdom choose the Torrid Zone Therein to settle a Plantation?

Merchants can tell you, those hot Climes were made But at the longest for a three years trade:

And though the Indies cast the sweeter smell,

Yet health and plenty do more Northward dwell;

For where the raging Sun-beams burn the earth,

Her scorched mantle withers into dearth;

Yet when that drought becomes the Harvests curse,

Snow doth the tender Corn most kindly nurse:

Why now then wooe you not some snowy head To take you in meer pitty to his bed?

I doubt the harder task were to perswade Him to love you: for if what I have said In Virgins as in Vegetals holds true,

Hee'l prove the better Nurse to cherish you.

Some men we know renown'd for wisdom grown By old records and antique Medalls shown;

Why ought not women then be held most wise Who can produce living antiquities?

Besides if care of that main happiness Your sex triumphs in, doth your thoughts possess,

I mean your beauty from decay to keep;

No wash nor mask is like an old mans sleep.

Young wives need never to be Sun-burnt fear,

Who their old husbands for Umbrellaes wear:

How russet looks an Orchard on the hill To one that's water'd by some neighb'ring Drill?

Are not the floated Medowes ever seen To flourish soonest, and hold longest green?

You may be sure no moist'ning lacks that Bride,

Who lies with Winter thawing by her side.

She should be fruitful too as fields that joyne Unto the melting waste of Appenine.

Whil'st the cold morning-drops bedew the Rose,

It doth nor leaf, nor smell, nor colour lose;

Then doubt not Sweet!

Age hath supplies of wet To keep You like that flowr in water set.

Dripping Catarrhs and Fontinells are things Will make You think You grew betwixt two Springs.

And should You not think so,

You scarce allow The force or Merit of Your Marriage-Vow;

Where Maids a new Creed learn, & must from thence Believe against their own or others sence.

Else Love will nothing differ from neglect,

Which turns not to a vertue each defect.

Ile say no more but this; you women make Your Childrens reck'ning by the Almanake.

I like it well, so you contented are,

To choose their Fathers by that Kalendar.

Turn then old Erra Pater, and there see According to lifes posture and degree,

What age or what complexion is most fit To make an English Maid happy by it;

And You shall find, if You will choose a man,

Set justly for Your own Meridian,

Though You perhaps let One and Twenty woo,

Your elevation is for Fifty Two.


Henry King

Henry King (1592 – 30 September 1669) was an English poet who served as Bishop of Chichester.

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