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"Thrice fairer than myself," thus she began, "The field's chief flower, sweet above compare,
Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man, More white and red than doves or roses are ; Nature that made thee, with herself at strife, Saith, that the world hath ending with thy life.
"Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed,
Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses,
"And yet not cloy thy lips with loathed satiety, But rather famish them amid their plenty, Making them red and pale with fresh variety,Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty:
A summer's day will seem an hour but short,
With this she seizeth on his sweating palm,
And, trembling in her passion, calls it balm,
Over one arm the lusty courser's rein,
She red and hot as coals of glowing fire,
The studded bridle on a ragged bough
Backward she push'd him, as she would be thrust,
And govern'd him in strength, though not in lust.
So soon was she along, as he was down,
And 'gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips; And kissing, speaks, with lustful language broken,
"If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open."
He burns with bashful shame; she with her tears
Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks:
He saith she is immodest, blames her 'miss;
Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast,
And where she ends she doth anew begin.
Forced to content, but never to obey,
She feedeth on the steam, as on a prey,
So they were dew'd with such-distilling showers.
Look, how a bird lies tangled in a net,
So fasten'd in her arms Adonis lies;
Pure shame and awed resistance made him fret,
Rain added to a river that is rank,
Still she entreats, and prettily entreats, For to a pretty air she tunes her tale; Still is he sullen, still he lours and frets, 'Twixt crimson shame, and anger ashy-pale; Being red, she loves him best; and being white,
Her best is better'd with a more delight.
Look how he can, she cannot choose but love;
And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt.
Upon this promise did he raise his chin,
But when her lips were ready for his pay,
Never did passenger in summer's heat
More thirst for drink, than she for this good turn:
'Tis but a kiss I beg; why art thou coy?
"I have been woo'd, as I entreat thee now, Even by the stern and direful god of war, Whose sinewy neck in battle ne'er did bow, Who conquers where he comes, in every jar: Yet hath he been my captive and my slave, And begg'd for that which thou unask'd shalt have.
"Over my altars hath he hung his lance,
Scorning his churlish drum, and ensign red,
"Thus he that overruled I oversway'd,
O, be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,
"Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine, (Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red,) The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine:What see'st thou in the ground? hold up thy head;
Look in mine eyeballs, there thy beauty lies: Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes?
"Art thou ashamed to kiss? then wink again, And I will wink; so shall the day seem night: Love keeps his revels where there are but twain; Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight:
These blue-vein'd violets whereon we lean Never can blab, nor know not what we mean.
"The tender spring upon thy tempting lip Shows thee unripe; yet mayst thou well be tasted;
Make use of time, let not advantage slip;
Beauty within itself should not be wasted: Fair flowers that are not gather'd in their prime
Rot and consume themselves in little time.
"Were I hard-favour'd, foul, or wrinkled-old, Ill-nurtured, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice, O'er-worn, despised, rheumatic, and cold, Thick-sighted, barren, lean, and lacking juice, Then mightst thou pause, for then I were not for thee;
But having no defects, why dost abhor me?
"Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow; Mine eyes are gray, and bright, and quick in turning;
My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow,
My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt,
Would in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt.
"Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear, Or, like a fairy, trip upon the green,