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But cruelly her tresses having rent,

My nails to scratch her lovely cheeks I bent.
Sighing she stood, her bloodless white looks shewed,
Like marble from the Parian mountains hewed.
Her half dead joints, and trembling limbs I saw,
Like poplar leaves blown with a stormy flaw.
Or slender cars, with gentle zephyr shaken,
Or waters' tops with the warm south-wind taken.
And down her cheeks, the trickling tears did flow,
Like water gushing from consuming snow.
Then first I did perceive I had offended,

My blood the tears were that from her descended.
Before her feet thrice prostrate down I fell,
My feared hands thrice back she did repel.
But doubt thou not (revenge doth grief appease,)
With thy sharp nails upon my face to seize.
Bescratch mine eyes, spare not my locks to break,
(Anger will help thy hands though ne'er so weak.)
And lest the sad signs of my crime remain,
Put in their place the combed hairs again.


Execratur lenam quæ puellam suam meretricis arte instituebat.

THERE is, whoe'er will know a bawd aright

Give ear, there is an old trot, Dipsas bight.
Her name comes from the thing: she being wise,
Sees not the morn on rosy horses rise.

She magic arts and Thessal charms doth know,

And makes large streams back to their fountains flow;

She knows with grass, with threads on wrong wheels


And what with Mars rank humour may be done.
When she will, clouds the darkened heav'n obscure,
When she will, day shines every where most pure.
(If I have faith) I saw the stars drop blood,
The purple moon with sanguine visage stood;
Her I suspect among night's spirits to fly,
And her old body in birds plumes to lye.
Fame saith as I suspect, and in her eyes,

Two eye-balls shine, and double light thence flies.
Great grandsires from their ancient graves she chides,
And with long charms the solid earth divides.
She draws chaste women to incontinence,
Nor doth her tongue want harmful eloquence.
By chance I heard her talk, these words she said,
While closely hid betwixt two doors I laid.
Mistress thou knowest, thou hast a blest youth pleas'd.
He staid and on thy looks his gazes seiz'd.

And why should'st not please? none thy face exceeds,
Aye me, thy body hath no worthy weeds.

As thou art fair, would thou wert fortunate,
Wert thou rich, poor should not be my state.
Th' opposed star of Mars hath done thee harm,
Now Mars is gone, Venus thy side doth warm,
And brings good fortune, a rich lover plants
His love on thee, and can supply thy wants.
Such is his form as may with thine compare,
Would he not buy thee, thou for him should'st care.


She blush'd: red shame becomes white cheeks, but


If feigned, doth well; if true, it doth amiss.
When on thy lap thine eyes thou dost deject,
Each one according to his gifts respect.
Perhaps the Sabines rude, when Tatius reign'd,
To yield their love to more than one disdain'd.
Now Mars doth rage abroad without all pity,
And Venus rules in her Eneas' city.

Fair women play, she's chaste whom none will have
Or, but for bashfulness herself would crave.
Shake off these wrinkles that thy front assault,
Wrinkles in beauty is a grievous fault.

Penelope in bows her youth's strength tried,
Of horn the bow was that approv'd their side.
Time flying slides hence closely, and deceives us,
And with swift horses the swift year soon leaves us.
Brass shines with use; good garments would be worn,
Houses not dwelt in, are with filth forlorn.
Beauty not exercis'd with age is spent,

Nor one or two men are sufficient.

Many to rob is more sure, and less hateful,

From dog-kept flocks come preys to wolves most grateful.

Behold, what gives the poet but new verses?
And thereof many thousand he rehearses.

The poet's god arrayed in robes of gold,

Of his gilt harp the well tun'd strings doth hold.

Let Homer yield to such as presents bring,

(Trust me) to give, it is a witty thing.



Nor, so thou may'st obtain a wealthy prize,
The vain name of inferior slaves despise.
Nor let the arms of ancient lives beguile thee;
Poor lover, with thy grandsires I exile thee.
Who seeks, for being fair, a night to have,
What he will give, with greater instance crave.
Make a small price, while thou thy nets doest lay;
Lest they should fly, being ta'en, the tyrant play.
Dissemble so, as lov'd he may be thought,
And take heed, lest he gets that love for nought.
Deny him oft; feign now thy head doth ache:
And Isis now will shew what excuse to make.
Receive him soon, lest patient use he gain,
Or lest his love oft beaten back should wain.
To beggars shut, to bringers ope thy gate;
Let him within hear; bard-out lovers prate.
And as first wrong'd the wronged sometimes banish;
Thy fault with his fault so repuls'd will vanish.
But never give a spacious time to ire,
Anger delayed doth oft to hate retire.

And let thine eyes constrained learn to weep,
That this, or that man may thy cheeks moist keep.
Now, if thou cozenest one, dread to forswear,
Venus to mock'd men lends a careless ear.
Servants fit for thy purpose thou must hire,
To teach thy lover, what thy thoughts desire.
Let them ask somewhat, many asking little,
Within a while great hopes grow of a little.
And sister, nurse, and mother spare him not,
By many hands great wealth is quickly got.

What were it for thee to require a gift
By keeping of thy birth, make but a shift.
Beware lest he unrival'd love secure,

Take strife away, love doth not well endure.
On all the beds men tumbling let him view,
And thy neck with lascivious marks made blue.
Chiefly shew him the gifts, which others send:
If he gives nothing, let him from thee wend.
When thou hast so much as he gives no more,
Pray him to lend what thou may'st ne'er restore.
Let thy tongue flatter, while thy mind harm works,
Under sweet honey deadly poison lurks.

If this thou doest to me by long use known,

(Nor let my words be with the winds hence blown,)
Oft thou wilt say, live well, thou wilt pray oft,
That my dead bones may in their grave lie soft.
As thus she spake, my shadow me betrayed,
With much ado my hands I scarcely stay'd;
But her blear eyes, baid scalp's hoary fleeces,
And rivel'd cheeks I would have pull'd a pieces.
The gods send thee no house, a poor old age,
Perpetual thirst, and winters lasting rage.


Ad Atticum, amantem non oportere desidiosum esse, sicuti nec militem.

ALL lovers war, and Cupid hath his tent,

Attic, all lovers are to war far sent,
What age fits Mars, with Venus doth agree,

'Tis shame for old in war or love to be.

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