Eternally bind thou this lovely band, And thou, glad Genius! in whose gentle hand And the sweet pleasures of theyr loves delight Till which we cease your further prayse to sing; Ne any And ye high heavens, the temple of the gods, 400 405 410 Poure out your blessing on us plentiously, And happy influence upon us raine, 415 That we may raise a large posterity, Which from the earth, which they may long possesse With lasting happinesse, Up to your haughty pallaces may mount; And, for the guerdon of theyr glorious merit, 420 And cease till then our tymely ioyes to sing: Song! made in lieu of many ornaments, With which my Love should duly have been dect, Ye would not stay your dew time to expect, And for short time an endlesse moniment! 425 430 438 POEMS. IN I. youth, before I waxed old, II. As Diane hunted on a day, She chaunst to come where Cupid lay, His quiver by his head: One of his shafts she stole away, And one of hers did close convay Into the others stead: With that Love wounded my Loves hart, But Diane beasts with Cupids dart. III. I SAW, in secret to my Dame How little Cupid humbly came, And said to her; "All hayle, my mother!" But, when he saw me laugh, for shame His face with bashfull blood did flame, IV. UPON a day, as Love lay sweetly slumbring A gentle Bee, with his loud trumpet murm'ring, Whereof when he was wakened with the noyse, "Whats this (quoth he) that gives so great a voyce, That wakens men withall?” In angry wize he flies about, And threatens all with corage stout. 5 10 To whom his mother closely smiling sayd, "Twixt earnest and 'twixt game: "See! thou thy selfe likewise art lyttle made, If thou regard the same. And yet thou suffrest neyther gods in sky, 15 Nathelesse, the cruell boy, not so content, Would needs the fly pursue; And in his hand, with heedlesse hardiment, Him caught for to subdue. But, when on it he hasty hand did lay, Now out alas, he cryde, and welaway, I wounded am full sore: The fly, that I so much did scorne, 25 Hath hurt me with his little horne." 30 Unto his mother straight he weeping came, Who could not chuse but laugh at his fond game, Though sad to see him pained. "Think now (quoth she) my son, how great the smart And then she bath'd him in a dainty well, The well of deare delight. Who would not oft be stung as this, To be so bath'd in Venus blis? 50 The wanton boy was shortly wel recured But he, soone after, fresh again enured His former cruelty. |