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With nimble flames; and though his mind
Be ne'er so curst, his tongue is kind :
For never were his words in aught
Found the pure issue of his thought.
The working bees' soft melting gold,
That which their waxen mines enfold,
Flows not so sweet as do the tones
Of his tuned accents; but if once

His anger kindle, presently

It boils out into cruelty

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And fraud: he makes poor mortals' hurts
The objects of his cruel sports.

With dainty curls his froward face
Is crown'd about; but O, what place,
What farthest nook of lowest Hell

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Feels not the strength, the reaching spell
Of his small hand? yet not so small
As 'tis powerful therewithal.

Though bare his skin, his mind he covers,
And like a saucy bird he hovers

With wanton wing, now here, now there,
'Bout men and women; nor will spare
Till at length he perching rest,

In the closet of their breast.

His weapon is a little bow,
Yet such a one as (Jove knows how)
Ne'er suffer'd yet his little arrow

Of Heaven's high'st arches to fall narrow.

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The gold that on his quiver smiles,
Deceives men's fears with flattering wiles :
But O! (too well my wounds can tell)
With bitter shafts 'tis sauced too well.
He is all cruel, cruel all;

His torch imperious, though but small,
Makes the sun (of flames the sire)
Worse than sun-burnt in his fire.
Wheresoe'er you chance to find him,
Seize him, bring him (but first bind him),
Pity not him, but fear thyself;

Though thou see the crafty elf

Tell down his silver drops unto thee:
They're counterfeit, and will undo thee.
With baited smiles if he display
His fawning cheeks, look not that way.
If he offer sugar'd kisses,

Start, and say, the serpent hisses.
Draw him, drag him, though he pray,
Woo, entreat, and crying say,
Prithee, sweet, now let me go,
Here's my quiver, shafts, and bow,
I'll give thee all, take all; take heed
Lest his kindness make thee bleed.

Whate'er it be Love offers, still presume
That though it shines, 'tis fire, and will consume.

OUT OF THE ITALIAN.

A SONG.

To thy lover
Dear, discover

That sweet blush of thine that shameth

(When those roses

It discloses)

All the flowers that Nature nameth.

In free air

Flow thy hair;

That no more Summer's best dresses

Be beholden

For their golden

Locks to Phoebus' flaming tresses.

O deliver

Love his quiver;

From thy eyes he shoots his arrows:
Where Apollo

Cannot follow :

Feather'd with his mother's sparrows.

O envy not

(That we die not)

Those dear lips whose door encloses

All the Graces

In their places,

Brother pearls, and sister roses,

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From these treasures
Of ripe pleasures

One bright smile to clear the weather.

Earth and Heaven

Thus made even,

Both will be good friends together.

The air does woo thee,

Winds cling to thee;

Might a word once fly from out thee,

Storm and thunder

Would sit under,

And keep silence round about thee.

But if Nature's

Common creatures

So dear glories dare not borrow ;

Yet thy beauty

Owes a duty

To my loving, lingering sorrow.

When to end me

Death shall send me

All his terrors to affright me:

Thine eyes' Graces
Gild their faces,

And those terrors shall delight me.

When my dying
Life is flying,

Those sweet airs that often slew me

Shall revive me,
Or reprieve me,

And to many deaths renew me.

OUT OF THE ITALIAN.
E

Love now no fire hath left him,
We two betwixt us have divided it :
Your eyes the light hath reft him ;

The heat commanding in my heart doth sit.
O that poor Love be not for ever spoiled,
Let my heat to your light be reconciled.

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OUT OF THE ITALIAN.

Would any one the true cause find
How Love came naked, a boy, and blind?
'Tis this listening one day too long
To th' Syrens in my mistress' song,

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