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To be sin's author, and sin's sharp reprover.
But ere the least of all these ills betide me,
I wish the earth may in her bosom hide me.
But I shall all your Phrygian wealth possess,
And more than your epistle can express :
Gifts, woven gold, embroidery, rich attire,
Purple and plate, or what I can desire.
Yet give me leave, think you all this extends
To countervail the loss of my chief friends ?
Whose friendship, or whose age shall I employ
To succour me, when I am wrong'd in Troy?
Or whether can I, having thus misdone,
Unto my father, or my brothers run ?
As much as you to me, false Jason swore
Unto Medea, yet from Æson's door
He after did exile her. Now, poor heart,
Where is thy father that should take thy part ?
Old Ætes or Calciope? Thou took’st
No aid from them, whom thou before forsook'st.
Or say thou didst (alas ! they cannot hear
Thy sad complaint) yet I no such thing fear;
No more Medea did : good hopes engage
Themselves so far, they fail in their presage.
You see the ships that in the main are toss'd
And many times by tempests wreck'd and lost,
Had at their launching from the haven's mouth,
A smooth sea, and a calm gale from the south,
Besides the brand your mother dreamt she bare,
The night before your birth breeds me fresh care.
It prophecy'd, ere many years expire,
Inflamed Troy must burn with Greekish fire.
As Venus favours you, because she gain'd
A doubtful prize by you ; yet the disdain'd
And vanquish'd goddesses, disgrac'd so late,
May bear you hard ; I therefore fear their hate.
Nor make no question, but if I consort you,
And for a ravisher our Greece report you ;
War will be wag'd with Troy, and you shall rue
The sword (alas !) your conquest shall pursue.
When Hypodamia, at her bridal feast,
Was rudely ravish'd by her Centaur guest ;
Because the savages the bride durst seize,
War grew betwixt them and the Lapythes.
Or think you Menelaus hath no spleen ?

Or that he hath not power to avenge his teen ?
Or that old Tyndarus this wrong can smother?
Or the two famous twins, each lov'd of other ?

So were your valour and rare deeds you boast,
And warlike spirits in which you triumph'd most ;
By which you have attain’d ʼmongst soldiers grace,
None will believe you, that but sees your face,
Your feature, and fair shape, is fitter far
For amorous courtships, than remorseless war.
Let rough-hew'd soldiers warlike dangers prove,
'Tis pity Paris should do ought, save love.
Hector (whom you so praise) for you may fight;
I'll find you war to skirmish every night,
Which shall become you better. Were I wise,
And bold withal, I might obtain the prize :
In such sweet single combats, hand to hand,
'Gainst which no woman that is wise will stand.
My champion I'll encounter breast to breast,
Though I were sure to fall, and be o'erpresti

If that you private conference intreat me; I apprehend you, and you cannot cheat me : I know the meaning, durst I yield thereto, Of what you would confer, what you would you do. You are too forward, you too far would wade ; But yet (God knows) your harvest's in the blade. My tired pen shall here its labour end ; A guilty sense in thievish lines I send. Speak next when your occasion best persuades, By Cymene and Æthra my two maids.


Live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That hills and vallies, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.
There will we sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, by whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
There will I make thee beds of roses,
With a thousand fragrant posies ;
A cap of flowers, and a girdle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle ;

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold ;
A belt of straw, and ivy buds,
With coral clasps, and amber studs.
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Then live with me and be my love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing,
For thy delight each May morning.
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.

THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE SHEPHERD. If that the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue ; These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be thy love, Time drives the flocks from field to fold, When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold ; And Philomel becometh dumb, And all complain of cares to come. The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward winter reckoning yield : A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy bed of roses, Thy cap, thy girdle, and thy posies ; Some break, some wither, some forgotten, In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds ; Thy coral clasps, and amber studs ; All these in me no means can move To come to thee, and be thy love. But could youth last, and love still breed ; Had joys no date, and age no need ; Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee, and be thy love.


Come live with me, and be my dear,
And, we will revel all the year
In plains and groves, on hills and dales,

Where fragrant air breathes sweetest gales. There shall you have the beauteous pine, The cedar, and the spreading vine, And all the woods to be a skreen, Lest Phæbus kiss my summer's queen. The feast of your disport shall be, Over some river, in a tree ; Where silver sands and pebbles sing Eternal ditties to the spring, Where you shall see the nymphs at play, And how the satyrs spend the day ; The fishes gliding on the sands, Offering their bellies to your hands ; The birds, with heavenly-tuned throats, Possess woods' echoes with sweet notes ; Which to your senses will impart A music to inflame the heart. Upon the bare and leafless oak, The ring-doves' wooings will provoke A colder blood than you possess, To play with me, and do not less. In bowers of laurel trimly dight, We will outwear the silent night, While Flora busy is to spread Her richest treasure on our bed. The glow-worms shall on you attend, And all their sparkling lights shall spend ; All to adorn and beautify Your lodging with most majesty : Then in my arms will I inclose Lilies' fair mixture with the rose ; Whose nice perfections in love's play, Shall tune me to the highest key. Thus as we pass the welcome night In sportful pleasures and delight, The nimble fairies on the grounds Shall dance and sing melodious sounds. If these may serve for to entice, Your presence to love's paradise ; Then come with me, and be my dear, And we will straight begin the year.

Take, O ! take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn ;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights which do mislead the morn.

But my kisses bring again,

Seals of love, tho' seald in vain.
Hide, O ! hide those hills of snow,
Which thy frozen bosom bears,
On whose tops the pinks that grow,
Are of those that April wears,

But my poor heart first set free,
Bound in those icy chains by thee.

THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE. Let the bird of lowest lay, On the sole Arabian tree, Herald sad, and trumpet be, To whose sound chaste wings obey : But thou shrieking harbinger, Foul procurer of the fiend, Augur of the fever's end, To this troop come thou not near, From this cession interdict Every fowl of tyrant wing, Save the eagle, feather'd king. Keep the obsequy so strict ; Let the priest in surplice white, That defunctive music ken, Be the death-divining swan, Lest the requiem lack his right. And thou, treble-dated crow, That thy sable gender mak'st, With the breath thou giv'st and tak'st, 'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go. Here the anthem doth commence : Love and constancy is dead, Phænix and the turtle filed In a mutual flame from hence; So they lov'd, as love in twain Had the essence but in one ; Two distincts but in none, Number there in love was slain : Hearts remote, yet not asunder,

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