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Bid me difcourfe, I will inchant thine ear,
Or, like a fairy, trip upon the green;

Or, like a nymph, with long difhevel'd hair,
Dance on the fands, and yet no footing feen.
Love is a fpirit all compact of fire,

Not grofs to fink, but light, and will aspire.

Witness this primrofe-bank, whereon I lie,
The forcelefs flowers, like fturdy trees, fupport me:
Two ftrengthlefs loves will draw me thro' the sky
From morn till night, even where I lift to sport me.
Is love fo light, fweet boy, and may it be,
That thou fhouldft think it heavy unto thee?

Is thine own heart to thine own face affected?
Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left?
Then wooe thyfelf, be of thyfelf rejected,
Steal thine own freedom, and complain of theft.
Narciffus fo himself, himself forsook,

And dy'd to kifs his fhadow in the brook.

Torches are made to light, jewels to wear,
Dainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use,
Herbs for their fmell, and fappy plants to bear;
Things growing to themselves are growth's abuse :
Seeds fpring from feeds, and beauty breedeth
Thou wert begot, to get it is thy duty.

[beauty;

Upon the earth's increase why fhouldft 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 fo, in fpite of death, thou doft furvive,
In that thy likenefs ftill is left alive.

By this the love-fick queen began to sweat,

For, where they lay, the fhadow had forfook them;
And Titan, tir'd 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' fide..

And now Adonis with a lazy spright,
And with a heavy, dark, difliking eye,
His low'ring brows, o'erwhelming his fair fight,.
Like misty vapours, when they blot the sky;
Souring his cheeks, cries, fie, no more of love,,
The fun doth burn my face, I must remove.

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Ah me! (quoth Venus) young, and fo unkind::
What bare excufes mak'ft thou to be gone?
I'll figh celeftial breath, whose gentle wind.
Shall cool the heat of this defcending fun.
I'll make a fhadow for thee of my hairs,

If they burn too, I'll quench them with my tears.

The fun that shines from heaven fhines but warm,,
And, lo, I lie between the fun 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 heav'nly and this earthly fun.

Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel?
Nay more than flint, for ftone at rain relenteth ::
Art thou a woman's fon, and canst not feel
What 'tis to love, how want of love tormenteth?:

Oh! had thy mother born fo bad a mind,
She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind..

What am I, that thou fhouldft contemn me this?
Or what great danger dwells upon my fuit?
What were thy lips the worfe for one poor kiss?
Speak fair: but speak fair words, or else be mute:
Give me one kifs, I'll give it thee again,

And one for intreft, if thou wilt have twain.

Fie, lifeless pidure, cold and fenfeless 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, tho' of a man's complection,.
For men will kifs even by their own direction.

This faid, impatience chokes her pleading tongue,
And fwelling paffion doth provoke a pause;
Red cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth her wrong;
Being judge in love, fhe cannot right her cause.

And now the weeps, and now the fain would fpeak,-
And now her fobs do her intendments break.

Sometimes the fhakes her head, and then his hand; Now gazeth the 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 ftruggles to be gone, She locks her lily fingers one in one.

Fondling, faith fhe, fince I have hem'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 thofe hills be dry,
Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.

Within this limit is relief enough,

Sweet bottom grafs, and high delightful plain,
Round rifing hillocks, brakes obfcure and rough,
To fhelter thee from tempeft and from rain.
Then be my deer, fince I am fuch a park,
No dog fhall rouze thee, tho' a thousand bark.

At this Adonis fmiles, as in difdain,

That in each cheek appears a pretty dimple;
Love made those hollows, if himfelt were flain,
He might be buried in a tomb fo fimple:

Foreknowing well if there he came to lie,
Why there love liv'd, and there he cou'd not die..

Thefe loving caves, these round enchanted pits,
Open'd their mouths to fwallow Venus liking:
Being mad before, how doth fhe now for wits?
Struck dead at firft, what needs a second striking?.
Poor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn,
To love a cheek that fmiles at thee with fcorn.

Now which way fhall the turn? What fhall fhe fay?
Her words are done, her woes the more increasing;
The time is spent, her object will away,
And from her twining arms doth urge releafing.
Pity, fhe cries, fome favour, fome remorse!
Away he fprings, and hafteth to his horse.

But, lo! from forth a cops that neighbours by,
A breeding jennet, lufty, young and proud,
Adonis' trampling courfer doth espy,

And forth the rushes, fnorts, and neighs aloud:
The ftrong-neck'd fteed, being ty'd unto a tree,
Breaketh his rein, and to her ftraight goes he

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Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,

And now his woven girts he breaks asunder;
The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,
Whofe hollow womb refounds 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 compafs'd creft, now stands an end:
His noftrils drink the air, and forth again
As from a furnace, vapours doth he lend:

His eye, which glifters fcornfully like fire,
Shews his hot courage, and his high desire.

Sometimes he trots, as if he told the steps,
With gentle majefty, and modest pride :
Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps,
As who fhould fay, lo! thus my ftrength is try'd;
And thus I do to captivate the eye

Of the fair breeder that is standing by.

What recketh he his rider's angry ftir,

His flatt'ring holla, or his stand, I say?
What cares he now for curb, or pricking spur?
For rich caparifons, or trappings gay?

He fees his love, and nothing else he fees,
For nothing elfe with his proud fight agrees.

Look when a painter wou'd furpass the life,
In limning out a well-proportion'd feed,
His art, with nature's workmanship at ftrife,
As if the dead the living fhould exceed :
So did his horfe excel a common one,
In fhape, in courage, colour, pace and bone.

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