Still she entreats, and prettily entreats,
For to a pretty air she tunes her tale;
Still is he sullen, still he lowers 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 by her fair immortal hand she swears
From his soft bosom never to remove,

Till he take truce with her contending tears,

Which long have rain'd, making her cheeks all wet;
And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt.

Upon this promise did he raise his chin,
Like a di-dapper† peering through a wave,
Who being look'd on, ducks as quickly in;
So offers he to give what she did crave;

But when her lips were ready for his pay,
He winks, and turns his lips another way.
Never did passenger in summer's heat
More thirst for drink, than she for this good turn.
Her help she sees, but help she cannot get;
She bathes in water, yet in fire must burn:
"Oh pity," 'gan she cry," flint-hearted boy;
"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,
His batter'd shield, his uncontrolled crest,

And for my sake hath learn'd to sport and dance,
To coy, to wanton, dally, smile, and jest;

Scorning his churlish drum, and ensign red,
Making my arms his field, his tent my bed.
"Thus him that over-ruled, I oversway'd,
Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chain:
Strong-temper'd steel his stronger strength obey'd,
Yet was he servile to my coy disdain.

O be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,
For mast'ring her that foil'd the god of fight.
"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 seest thou in the ground? hold up thy head;
Look in mine eyeballs where thy beauty lies:
Then why not lips on lips, since eyes on eyes?

*The red which before was best is bettered by the white; the white by the red, as he alternately blushes and turns pale.

The water-fowl, called a dab-chick.

I. e. as in a mirror.

"Art thou ashamed to kiss? then wink again,
And I will wink, so shall the day seem night;
Love keeps his revels where there be 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 they 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-natured, 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 grey, and bright, and quick in turning;
My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow,

My flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burning;
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,
Or, like a nymph, with long dishevell❜d hair,
Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen:
Love is a spirit all compact of fire,

Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire.
"Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie;
These forceless flowers like sturdy trees support me;
Two strengthless doves will draw me through the sky,
From morn till night, even where I list to sport me:
Is love so light, sweet boy, and may it be
That thou shouldst think it heavy unto thee?
"Is thine own heart to thine own face affected?
Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left ?
Then woo thyself, be of thyself rejected,
Steal thine own freedom, and complain of theft.
Narcissus so, himself, himself forsook,

And died to kiss his shadow in the brook.
"Torches are made to light, jewels to wear,
Dainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use,

Herbs for their smell, and sappy plants to bear;
Things growing to themselves are growth's abuse:

Seeds spring from seeds, and beauty breedeth beauty,
Thou wert begot,-to get it is thy duty.

* Juice, Dr. Farmer states, is pronounced joyce, in the Midland counties. + Pronounced as if it were written air. In our author's native county it s still so pronounced by the vulgar.

I. e. that grow, or keep wholly to themselves.

"Upon the earth's increase why shouldst thou feed, Unless the earth with thy increase be fed ?

By law of Nature thou art bound to breed,
That thine may live when thou thyself art dead;
And so in spite of death thou dost survive,
In that thy likeness still is left alive."

By this, the love-sick queen began to sweat,
For, where they lay, the shadow had forsook them,
And Titan, tired in the mid-day heat,
With burning eye did hotly overlook them;
Wishing Adonis had his team to guide,
So he were like him, and by Venus' side.
And now Adonis, with a lazy spite,
And with a heavy, dark, disliking eye,
His low'ring brows o'erwhelming his fair sight,
Like misty vapours, when they blot the sky,

Souring his cheeks, cries, "Fie, no more of love;
The sun doth burn my face; I must remove."

Ah me," quoth Venus, "young, and so unkind!
What bare excuses mak'st thou to be gone!
I'll sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind
Shall cool the heat of this descending sun;
I'll make a shadow for thee of my hairs:

If they burn too, I'll quench them with my tears. "The sun that shines from heaven, shines but warm,* And lo, I lie between that sun and thee;

The heat I have from thence doth little harm,

Thine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me;
And were I not immortal, life were done,
Between this heavenly and earthly sun.

"Art thou obdúrate, flinty, hard as steel,
Nay more than flint, for stone at rain relenteth?
Art thou a woman's son, and canst not feel
What 'tis to love? how want of love tormenteth?
O had thy mother borne so bad a mind,

She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind.
"What am I, that thou shouldst contemn me this?+
Or what great danger dwells upon my suit?
What were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss?
Speak, fair; but speak fair words, or else be mute:
Give me one kiss, I'll give it thee again,

And one for interest, if thou wilt have twain.

Fie, lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone,

Well-painted idol, image dull and dead,
Statue, contenting but the eye alone,

Thing like a man, but of no woman bred;

Thou art no man, though of a man's complexion,
For men will kiss even by their own direction."

* I. e. genially: not burns.

+ I. e. contemptuously refuse this favour.

This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue,
And swelling passion doth provoke a pause;
Red cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth her wrong;
Being judge in love, she cannot right her cause:

And now she weeps, and now she fain would speak,
And now her sobs do her intendments* break.
Sometimes she shakes her head, and then his hand,
Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground;
Sometimes her arms infold him like a band;
She would, he will not in her arms be bound;
And when from thence he struggles to be gone,
She locks her lily fingers one in one.

Fondling," she saith, " since I have hemm'd thee here, Within the circuit of this ivory pale,

I'll be the park, and thou shalt be my deer;

Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale:
Graze on my lips; and if those hills be dry,
Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.
"Within this limit is relief enough,

Sweet bottom-grass, and high delightful plain,
Round rising hillocks, brakes obscure and rough,
To shelter thee from tempest and from rain;
Then be my deer, since I am such a park;

No dog shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark,"

At this Adonis smiles, as in disdain,

That in each cheek appears a pretty dimple:
Love made those hollows,† if himself were slain,
He might be buried in a tomb so simple;

Fore-knowing well, if there he came to lie,
Why there love lived, and there he could not die.
These lovely caves, these round enchanting pits,
Open'd their mouths to swallow Venus' liking:
Being mad before, how doth she now for wits?
Struck dead at first, what needs a second striking?
Poor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn,
To love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn!

Now which way shall she turn? what shall she say?
Her words are done, her woes the more increasing:
The time is spent, her object will away,

And from her twining arms doth urge releasing:

66

Pity," she cries, "some favour, some remorse'
Away he springs, and hasteth to his horse.

But lo, from forth a copse that neighbours by,
A breeding jennet, lusty, young, and proud,
Adonis' trampling courser doth espy,
And forth she rushes, snorts, and neighs aloud:
The strong-neck'd steed, being tied unto a tree,
Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he.
*I. e. intentions.

† (So that).

+ Mercy.

Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,
And now his woven girts he breaks asunder,
The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,
Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven's thunder;
The iron bit he crushes 'tween his teeth,
Controlling what he was controlled with.

His ears up-prick'd; his braided hanging mane
Upon his compass'd crest now stands on end;
His nostrils drink the air, and forth again,
As from a furnace, vapours doth he send:
His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire,
Shows his hot courage and his high desire.
Sometimes he trots, as if he told the steps,
With gentle majesty, and modest pride:
Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps,
As who should say, Lo! thus my strength is tried;
And thus I do to captivate the eye

Of the fair breeder that is standing by.

What recketh he his rider's angry stir,
His flattering holla, or his Stand, I say?
What cares he now for curb, or pricking spur?
For rich caparisons, or trappings gay?

He sees his love, and nothing else he sees,
For nothing else with his proud sight agrees.
Look, when a painter would surpass the life,
In limning out a well-proportion'd steed,
His art with Nature's workmanship at strife,
As if the dead the living should exceed;

So did this horse excel a common one,
In shape, in courage, colour, pace, and bone.
Round-hoof'd, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long,
Broad breast, full eyes, small head, and nostril wide,
High crest, short ears, straight legs, and passing strong,
Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide:
Look what a horse should have, he did not lack,
Save a proud rider on so proud a back.

Sometimes he scuds far off, and there he stares,
Anon he starts at stirring of a feather;
To bid the wind a base he now prepares,t
And whêrt he run, or fly, they knew not whether;
For through his mane and tail the high wind sings,
Fanning the hairs, who wave like feather'd wings.
He looks upon his love, and neighs unto her;
She answers him, as if she knew his mind:
Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her,
She puts on outward strangeness,§ seems unkind;
Spurns at his love, and scorns the heat he feels,
Beating his kind embracements with her heels.
* Arched.

+ As at prisoners'-base.
§ I. e. seeming coyness.