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Going out again pass forth the door most wisely,
And somewhat higher bear thy foot precisely.
Hence luckless tables, funeral wood be flying,
And thou the wax stuff'd full with notes denying;
Which I think gather'd from cold hemlock's flower,
Wherein bad honey Corsic bees did pour,

Yet as if mix'd with red lead thou wert ruddy,
That colour rightly did appear so bloody.
And evil wood thrown in the highways lie,
Be broke with wheels of chariots passing by.
And him that hew'd you out for needful uses,
I'll prove had hands impure with all abuses.
Poor wretches on the tree themselves did strangle:
There sat the hangman for men's necks to angle.
To hoarse scrich-owls foul shadows it allows;
Vultures and furies nestled in the boughs.
To these my love I foolishly committed

And then with sweet words to my mistress fitted.
More fitly had they wrangling bonds contained
From barbarous lips of some attorney strained.
Among day-books and bills they had lain better,
In which the merchant wails his bankrupt debtor.
Your name approves you made for such like things
The number two no good divining brings.

Angry, I pray that rotten age you wracks
And sluttish white-mould overgrow the wax.


Ad Auroram ne properet.

Now o'er the sea from her old love comes she
That draws the day from heaven's cold axletree.
Aurora whither slid'st thou ? down again,
And birds from Memnon yearly shall be slain.
Now in her tender arms I sweetly bide,
If ever now well lies she by my side,
The air is cold, and sleep is sweetest now,

And birds send forth shrill notes from every bough.
Whither run'st thou, that men and women love not?
Hold in thy rosy horses that they move not.
Ere thou rise, stars teach seamen where to sail,
But when thou com'st, they of their courses fail.
Poor travellers though tired, rise at thy sight,
And soldiers make them ready to the fight.
The painful hind by thee to field is sent;
Slow oxen early in the yoke are pent.

Thou cous'nest boys of sleep, and dost betray them
To pedants that with cruel lashes pay them.
Thou mak'st the surety to the lawyer run,
That with one word hath nigh himself undone.
The lawyer and the client hate thy view,
Both whom thou raisest up to toil anew.
By thy means women of their rest are barr'd,
Thou set'st their labouring hands to spin and card.
All could I bear, but that the wench should rise,
Who can endure, save him with whom none lies?
How oft wish'd I night would not give thee place,
Nor morning stars shun thy uprising face.

How oft that either wind would break thy coach,
Or steeds might fall, forc'd with thick clouds approach.
Whither go'st thou, hateful nymph? Memnon the elf
Receiv'd his cole-black colour from thyself.

Say that thy love with Cephalus were not known,
Then thinkest thou thy loose life is not shown.
Would Tithon might but talk of thee awhile,
Not one in heaven should be more base and vile.
Thou leav'st his bed, because he's faint through age,
And early mount'st thy hateful carriage: ¡
But held'st thou in thine arms some Cephalus,
Then would'st thou cry, stay night and run not thus.
Do'st punish me, because years make him wane,
I did not bid thee wed an aged swain.

The moon sleeps with Endymion every day,

Thou art as fair as she, then kiss and play.

Jove that thou should'st not haste but wait his leisure
Made two nights one to finish up his pleasure.
I chide no more, she blush'd, and therefore heard me,
Yet linger'd not the day, but morning scar'd me.


Puellam consolatur cui prænimia cura comæ desiderant.

LEAVE colouring thy tresses I did cry,

Now hast thou left no hairs at all to die.

But what had been more fair had they been kept? Beyond thy robes thy dangling locks had swept. Feard'st thou to dress them being fine and thin, Like to the silk the curious Seres spin.

Or threads which spider's slender foot draws out,
Fastening her light web some old beam about.
Not black, nor golden were they to our view,
Yet although neither mix'd of eithers hue.
Such as in hilly Ida's watery plains,

The cedar tall spoil'd of his bark retains.
And they were apt to curl an hundred ways,
And did to thee no cause of dolour raise.

Nor hath the needle, or the comb's teeth reft them,
The maid that comb'd them ever safely left them.
Oft was she dress'd before mine eyes, yet never,
Snatching the comb to beat the wench, out-drive her.
Oft in the morn her hairs not yet digested,
Half sleeping on a purple bed she rested;
Yet seemly like a Thracian Bacchanal,
That tir'd doth rashly on the green grass fall.
When they were slender, and like downy moss,
The troubled hairs, alas, endur'd great loss.
How patiently hot irons they did take,
In crooked trammells crispy curls to make.
I cried, 'tis sin, 'tis sin, these hairs to burn,
They well become thee, then to spare them turn.
Far off be force, no fire to them may reach,
Thy very hairs will the hot bodkin teach.

Lost are the goodly locks, which from their crown,
Phoebus and Bacchus wish'd were hanging down.
Such were they as Diana painted stands,
All naked holding in her wave-moist hands.
Why dost thy ill-comb'd tresses loss lament?
Why in thy glass dost look being discontent?

Be not to see with wonted eyes inclin'd;

To please thyself, thyself put out of mind.
No charmed herbs of any harlot skath'd thee,
No faithless witch in Thessal waters bath'd thee.
No sickness harm'd thee; far be that away,
No envious tongue wrought thy thick locks decay,
By thine own hand and fault thy hurt doth grow,
Thou mad'st thy head with compound poison flow.
Now Germany shall captive hair-tires send thee,
And vanquish'd people curious dressings lend thee.
With some admiring, O thou oft wilt blush!
And say he likes me for my borrowed bush.
Praising for me some unknown Guelder dame,
But I remember when it was my


Alas she almost weeps, and her white cheeks,

Dyed red with shame to hide from shame she seeks.

She holds, and views her old locks in her lap;

Aye me! rare gifts unworthy such a hap.

Cheer up thyself, thy loss thou may'st repair,
And be hereafter seen with native hair.


Ad invidos, quod fama poetarum sit perennis.

ENVY, why carpest thou my time is spent so ill?
And term'st my works fruits of an idle quill?
Or that unlike the line from whence I come,
War's dusty honors are refus'd being young?
Nor that I study not the brawling laws,
Nor set my voice to sale in every cause?

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