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On his bow-back he hath a battle set
Being mov'd, he strikes what e'er is in his way,
And whom he strikes, his crooked tuslies slay.
The thorny brambles and embracing bushes,
As fearful of him, part; through whom he rushes. Alas, be nought esteems that face of thine, To which Love's eye pays tributary gazes ; Nor thy soft hands, sweet lips, and crystal eyne, Whose full perfection all the world amazes;
But baving thee at vantage (wond'rous dread !)
Would root these beauties as he roots the mead.
When thou didst name the boar, not to dissemble,
I fear’d thy fortune, and my joints did tremble. Didst thou not mark my face? Was it not wbite? Saw'st thou not signs of fear lurk in mine ege? Grew I not faint ? And fell I not downright? Within my bosom, whereon thou dost lie,
My boding beart pants, beats, and takes no rest,
But, like an earthquake, sbakes thee on my breast. For where love reigns, disturbing jealousy Doth call himself affection's centinel ; Gives false alarms, suggesteth mutiny, And in a peaceful hour doth cry, kill, kill ;
Distemp'ring gentle love with his desire,
As air and water dotb abate the fire.
Knocks at my heart, and whispers in mine ear,
Apd more than so, presenteth to mine eye
Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed,
Doth make them droop with grief, and bang the head. What should I do, seeing thee so indeed, That trembling at the imagination, The thougbt of it doth make my faint heart bleed? And fear doth teach it divination:
I prophesy thy death, my living sorrow,
It'thou encounter with the boar to-morrow.
Pursue these fearful creatures o'er the downs,
And on thy well-breath'd horse keep with thy bounds. And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare, Mark the poor wretch to overshut bis troubles, How he out-runs the wind, and with what care He cranks and crosses, with a thousand doubles :
The many musits through the which he goes,
Are like a labyrinth to amaze bis foes.
And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer;
Danger deviseth shifts; wit waits on fear:
Then do they spend their mouths : Echo replies,
As if another chase were in the skies.
And now bis grief may be compared well
Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch
For misery is trodden on by many,
And being low, never reliev'd by any.
Applying this to that, and so to so;
For love can comment upon every woe. Where did I leave ?-No matter where, quoth he; Leave me, and then the story aptly ends : The night is spent. Why, what of that, quoth she, I am, quoth he, expected of my friends;
And now 'tis dark, and going I shall fall.
In night, quoth she, desire sees best of all. But if thou fall, O then imagine this, The earth in love with thee thy footing trips, And all is but to rob thee of a kiss. Rich preys make rich men thieves; so do thy lips
Make modest Dian cloudy and forlorn,
Lest she should steal a kiss, and die forsworn. Now, of this dark night I perceive the reason : Cynthia for shame obscures her silver shine, Till forging nature be condemn'd of treason, For stealing moulds from heaven that were divine,
Wherein she fram'd thee in high heaven's despite,
To shame the sun by day, and her by night.
Making it subject to the tyranny
Of sad mischances and such misery:
Surfeits, impostumes, grief, and damn'd despair,
And not the least of all these maladies,
Are on the sudden wasted, thaw'd and done,
As mountain-show melts with the mid-day sun. Therefore, despite of fruitless chastity, Love-lacking vestals, and self-loving nuns, That on the earth would breed a scarcity, And barren dearth of daughters and of sons,
Be prodigal: the lamp that burns by night,
Dries up his oil, to lend the world his light. What is thy body but a swallowing grave, Seeming to bury that posterity Which by the rights of time thou needs must have, If thou destroy them not in their obscurity ?
If so, the world will hold thee in disdain,
Sith in thy pride so fair a bope is slain, So in thyself thyself art made away ; A mischief worse than civil home-bred strife, Or their's, whose desperate hands themselves do slay, Or butcher-sire, that reaves his son of life.
Foul cankering rust the hidden treasure frets,
But gold that's put to use, more gold begets.
For by this black-fac'd night, desire's foul nurse,
Your treatise makes me like you worse and worse. If love have lent you twenty thousand tongues, And every tongue more moving than your own, Bewitching like the wanton mermaid's songs, Yet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown;
For know, my heart stands armed in my ear,
And will not let a false sound enter there;
No, lady, no; my heart longs not to groan,
What have you urg'd that I cannot reprove ?
You do it for increase; O strange excuse!
When reason is the bawd to lust's abuse. Call it not love, for love to heaven is fled, Since sweating last on earth usurps his name; Under whose simple semblance be bath fed Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame;
Which the hot tyrant stains, and soon bereaves,
As caterpillars do the tender leaves.
Love surfeits not; lust like a glutton dies :
Love is all truth; lust full of forged lies.
Mide ears that to your wanton talk attended,
Do burn themselves for having so offended.
Look how a bright star shootetb from the sky,
So glides be in the night from Venus' eye;
So did the merciless and pitchy nigbt
Fold in the object that did feed her sight.
Even so confounded in the dark she lay,