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Even as poor birds, deceiv'd with painted grapes,
Do surfeit by the eye, and pine the maw;
Even so she languisheth in her mishaps
As those poor birds, that helpless berries saw.

The warm effects which she in him finds missing;

She seeks to kindle with continual kissing.
But all in vain, good queen, it will not be,
She hath assay'd as much as may be prov'd,
Her pleading hath deserv'd a greater fee:
She's Love, she loves, and yet she is not lov'd!

Fie, fie, he says, you crush me, let me go;
You have no reason to withhold me so.

Thou had'st been gone (quoth she) sweet boy, ere this,
But thou told'st me thou would'st hunt the boar;
Oh! be advis'd, thou know'st not what it is,
With javelin's point a churlish swine to gore,

Whose tushes never sheath’d, he whetteth still,
Like to a mortal butcher, bent to kill.

On his bow-back he hath a battle set
Of bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes :
His eyes, like glow-worms, shine when he doth fret,
His snout digs sepulchres where'er he goes :

Being mov'd, he strikes whate'er is in his way;

And when he strikes, his crooked tushes slay.
His brawny sides with hairy bristles arm'd,
Are better proof than thy spear's point can enter;
His short thick neck cannot be easily harm’d,
Being ireful, on the lion he will venture;

The thorny brambles and embracing bushes,
As fearful of him, part, through whom he rushes.

Alas! he nought esteems that face of thine,
To which love's eye pays tributary gazes;
Nor thy soft hand, sweet lips, and crystal eyne,
Whose full perfection all the world amazes ;

But having thee at 'vantage (wondrous dread!).
Would root these beauties as he roots the mead.

O! let him keep his loathsome cabin still!
Beauty hath nought to do with such foul fiends;

C

VOL.IX.

Come not within his danger by thy will;
They that thrive well take counsel of their friends.

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 white? Sawost thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye? Grew I not faint ? And fell I not downright? Within my bosom, whereon thou dost lie,

My boding heart pants, beats, and takes no rest,

But like an earthquake shakes thee on my breast.
For where love reigns, disturbing jealousy
Doth call himself affection's sentinel ;
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 doth abate the fire.

This sour informer, this hate-breeding spy,
'This canker that eats up love's tender spring,
This carry-tale, dissentious jealousy,
That sometimes true news, sometimes false doth bring ;

Knocks at my heart, and whispers in mine ear,

That if I lov'd thee, I thy death should fear. And more than so, presenteth to mine eye The picture of an angry chafing boar, Under whose sharp fangs, on his back doth lie An image like thyself, all stain'd with gore ; Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed, Doth make 'em droop with grief, and hang the head.

What should I do, seeing thee so indeed?
That trembling at th’ imagination,
The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed,
And fear doth teach it divination.

I prophesy thy death, my living sorrow,
If thou encounter with the boar to-morrow.

But if thou needs will hunt, be ruld by me,
Upcouple at the timorous flying hare ;
Or at the fox, which lives by subtilty ;
Or at the roe, which no encounter dare :

Pursue these fearful creatures o'er the downs,

And on thy well-breath'd horse keep with thy hounds. And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare, Mark the poor wretch, to overshut his troubles, How he out-runs the wind, and with what care He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles.

The many umsits through the which he goes,

Are like a labyrinth t amaze his foes ;
Sometimes he runs among the flock of sheep,
To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell;
And sometime, where earth-delving conies keep,
To stop the loud pursuers in their yell;

And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer:
Danger deviseth shifts, wit waits on fears

For there his smell with others being mingled,
The hot-scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt,
Ceasing their clamorous cry, till they have singled,
With much ado, the cold fault cleanly out,

Then do they spend their mouths; Echo replies;
As if another chace were in the skies.

By this poor Wat far off, upon a hill,
Stands on his hinder legs with list’ning ear,
To hearken if his foes pursue him still :
Anon their loud alarums he doth hear,

And now his griefs may be compared well
To one sore sick, that hears the passing bell.

Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch
Turn, "and return, indenting with the way;
Each envious briar his weary legs doth scratch,
Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay:
For misery is trodden on by many ;
And being low, never reliev'd by any.

Lie quietly, and hear a little more,
Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise :
To make thee hate the hunting of the boar,
Unlike myself, thou hear'st me moralize,

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 shrine,
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.

And therefore hath she brib'd the destinies.
To cross the curious workmanship of nature,
To mingle beauty with infirmities,
And pure perfection with impure defeature ;

Making it subject to the tyranny
Of sad mischances and much misery.

As burning fever, agues pale and faint,
Life-poisoning pestilence, and frenzies woad,
The marrow-eating sickness, whose attaint
Disorder breeds by heating of the blood :

Surfeits, imposthumes, grief, and damn’d despair;
Swear nature's death for framing thee so fair.

And not the least of all these maladies,
But in one minute's sight brings beauty under:
Both favour, savour, hue and qualities,
Whereat th' imperial gazer late did wonder,

Are on the sudden wasted, thaw'd, and done,

As mountain's snow melts with the mid-day sun. Therefore, despite of fruitless chastity, Love-lacking vestals, and self-loving nuns,

Thus 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 hope is slain.

So in thyself, thyself art made away,
A mischief worse than civil home-bred strife,
Or theirs, whose desperate hands themselves do slay,
Or butcher's sire that reaves his son of life.

Foul cankering rust the hidden treasure frets !
But gold that's put to use, more gold begets.

Nay then, quoth Adon', you will fall again
Into your idle over-handled theme;
The kiss I gave you was bestow'd in vain,
And all in vain you strive against the stream:

For by this black-fac'd night, desire's foul nurse,

Your treatise makes me like you worse and worse.
If love hath 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 :

Lest the deceiving harmony should run
Into the quiet closure of my breast;
And then my little heart were quite undone,
In his bed-chamber to be barr'd of rest.

No, lady, no, my heart longs not to groan,
But soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone.

What have you urg'd, that I cannot reprove?
The path is smooth that leadeth into danger.
I hate not love, but your device in love,
That lends embracements unto every stranger.

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