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She, marking them, begins a wailing note,
How love makes young men thrall, and old men dote;
How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty:
Her heavy anthem still concludes in "Woe," And still the choir of echoes answer so.
Her song was tedious, and outwore the night, For lovers' hours are long, though seeming short: If pleased themselves, others, they think, delight In such-like circumstance, with such-like sport: Their copious stories, oftentimes begun,
End without audience, and are never done.
For who hath she to spend the night withal,
Like shrill-tongued tapsters answering every call,
She says, "tis so:" they answer all, "tis so;" And would say after her, if she said "no."
Lo! here the gentle lark, weary of rest,
Who doth the world so gloriously behold,
The cedar-tops and hills seem burnish'd gold.
Venus salutes him with this fair good-morrow: "O, thou clear god, and patron of all light, From whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow
The beauteous influence that makes him bright, There lives a son, that suck'd an earthly mother, May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other."
This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove,
And as she runs, the bushes in the way
By this, she hears the hounds are at a bay;
Even so the timorous yelping of the hounds
For now she knows it is no gentle chase,
This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear,
They basely fly, and dare not stay the field.
Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy;
And with that word she spied the hunted boar ;
Whose frothy mouth, bepainted all with red, Like milk and blood being mingled both together, A second fear through all her sinews spread, Which madly hurries her she knows not whither: This way she runs, and now she will no further, But back retires, to rate the boar for murther.
A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways; She treads the path that she untreads again; Her more than haste is mated with delays, Like the proceedings of a drunken brain,
Full of respect, yet nought at all respecting, In hand with all things, nought at all effecting.
Here kennell'd in a brake she finds a hound, And asks the weary caitiff for his master; And there another licking of his wound, 'Gainst venom'd sores the only sovereign plaster; And here she meets another sadly scowling, To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling.
When he hath ceased his ill-resounding noise, Another flap-mouth'd mourner, black and grim, Against the welkin volleys out his voice; Another and another answer him,
Clapping their proud tails to the ground below,
Shaking their scratch'd ears, bleeding as they go.
Look, how the world's poor people are amazed
So she at these sad signs draws up her breath,
“Hard-favour'd tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean, Hateful divorce of love," (thus chides she Death,) Grim-grinning ghost, earth's worm, what dost thou mean
To stifle beauty, and to steal his breath,
Who when he lived, his breath and beauty set
"If he be dead,-O no, it cannot be,
Thy mark is feeble age; but thy false dart
"Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke, And hearing him, thy power had lost his power. The Destinies will curse thee for this stroke; They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck'st a flower:
Love's golden arrow at him should have fled, And not Death's ebon dart, to strike him dead.
"Dost thou drink tears, that thou provok❜st such weeping?
What may a heavy groan advantage thee?
Here overcome, as one full of despair,
The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair
And with his strong course opens them again.
O, how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow! Her eyes seen in the tears, tears in her eye; Both crystals, where they view'd each other's sorrow,
Sorrow, that friendly sighs sought still to dry;
But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain, Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again.
Variable passions throng her constant woe,
But none is best; then join they all together, Like many clouds consulting for foul wea ther.
By this, far off she hears some huntsmen hollo:
Whereat her tears began to turn their tide, Being prison'd in her eye, like pearls in glass ;