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Her face doth reek and smoke, her blood doth boil,
And careless lust stirs up a desperate courage; Planting oblivion, beating reason back, Forgetting shame's pure blush, and honour's wrack.
Hot, faint, and weary, with her hard embracing, Like a wild bird being tamed with too much handling,
Or as the fleet-foot roe that's tired with chasing, Or like the froward infant still'd with dandling, He now obeys, and now no more resisteth, While she takes all she can, not all she listeth.
What wax so frozen but dissolves with tempering, And yields at last to every light impression? Things out of hope are compass'd oft with venturing,
Chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission: Affection faints not like a pale-faced coward, But then woos best when most his choice is froward.
When he did frown, O, had she then gave over,
Such nectar from his lips she had not suck'd. Foul words and frowns must not repel a lover; What though the rose have prickles, yet 'tis pluck'd:
Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast, Yet love breaks through, and picks them all
For pity now she can no more detain him;
She is resolved go longer to restrain him;
"Sweet boy," she says, "this night I'll waste in sorrow,
For my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch.
Tell me, Love's master, shall we meet to-morrow? Say, shall we? shall we? wilt thou make the match? "
He tells her, no; to-morrow he intends
"The boar!" quoth she; whereat a sudden pale, Like lawn being spread upon the blushing rose, Usurps her cheeks; she trembles at his tale, And on his neck her yoking arms she throws:
She sinketh down, still hanging by his neck, He on her belly falls, she on her back.
Now is she in the very lists of love,
He will not manage her, although he mount her;
Even as poor birds, deceived with painted grapes,
She seeks to kindle with continual kissing.
But all in vain; good queen, it will not be :
You have no reason to withhold me so."
"Thou hadst been gone," quoth she, "sweet boy, ere' this,
But that thou told'st me thou wouldst hunt the boar.
O, be advised! thou know'st not what it is
Whose tushes never-sheathed he whetteth still,
"On his bow-back he hath a battle set Of bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes; His eyes like glowworms shine when he doth
His snout digs sepulchres where'er he goes;
Being moved, he strikes whate'er is in his way, And whom he strikes his cruel 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 eyes pay tributary gazes;
Nor thy soft hands, 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: 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? Saw'st 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
"This sour informer, this bate-breeding spy,
Knocks at my heart, and whispers in mine ear, That if I love thee, I thy death should fear:
"And, more than so, presenteth to mine eye
Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed Doth make them droop with grief, and hang the head.
"What should I do, seeing thee so indeed, That tremble at the imagination?
The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed, And fear doth teach it divination :
I prophesy thy death, my living sorrow,
"But if thou needs will hunt, be ruled by me; Uncouple at the timorous flying hare, Or at the fox, which lives by subtlety, Or at the roe, which no encounter dare: Pursue these fearful creatures o'er the downs, And on thy well-breathed horse keep with thy hounds.
"And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare, Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles, How he outruns the wind, and with what care He cranks and crosses, with a thousand doubles: The many musits through the which he goes Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.
"Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep,
And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer: