The Anagram

Marry, and love thy Flavia, for, sheeHath all things, whereby others beautious bee,For, though her eyes be small, her mouth is great,Though they be Ivory, yet her teeth be jeat,Though they be dimme, yet she is light enough,And though her harsh haire fall, her skinne is rough;What though her cheeks be yellow, her haire's red,Give her thine, and she hath a maydenhead.These things are beauties elements, where theseMeet in one, that one must, as perfect, please.If red and white and each good qualityBe in thy wench, ne'r aske where it doth lye.In buying things perfum'd, we aske; if thereBe muske and amber in it, but not where.Though all her parts be not in th'usuall place,She'hath yet an Anagram of a good face.If we might put the letters but one way,In the leane dearth of words, what could wee say?When by the Gamut some Musitions makeA perfect song, others will undertake,By the same Gamut chang'd, to equall it.Things simply good, can never be unfit.She's faire as any, if all be like her,And if none bee, then she is singular.All love is wonder; if wee justly doeAccount her wonderfull, why not lovely too?Love built on beauty, soone as beauty, dies,Chuse this face, chang'd by no deformities.Women are all like Angels; the faire beLike those which fell to worse; but such as shee,Like to good Angels, nothing can impaire:'Tis lesse griefe to be foule, then to have beene faire.For one nights revels, silke and gold we chuse,But, in long journeyes, cloth, and leather use.Beauty is barren oft; best husbands say,There is best land, where there is foulest way.Oh what a soveraigne Plaister will shee bee,If thy past sinnes have taught thee jealousie!Here needs no spies, nor eunuches; her commitSafe to thy foes; yea, to a Marmosit.When Belgiaes citties, the round countries drowne,That durty foulenesse guards, and armes the towne:So doth her face guard her; and so, for thee,Which, forc'd by businesse, absent oft must bee,Shee, whose face, like clouds, turnes the day to night,Who, mightier then the sea, makes Moores seem white,Who, though seaven yeares, she in the Stews had laid,A Nunnery durst receive, and thinke a maid,And though in childbeds labour she did lie,Midwifes would sweare, 'twere but a tympanie,Whom, if shee accuse her selfe, I credit lesseThen witches, which impossibles confesse,Whom Dildoes, Bedstaves, and her Velvet GlasseWould be as loath to touch as Joseph was:One like none, and lik'd of none, fittest were,For, things in fashion every man will weare.