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Now is she in the very lists of love,
Her champion mounted for the hot encounter :
All is imaginary, she doth prove,
He will not manage her, altho' he mount her:

That worse than Tantalus is her annoy,
To clip Elysium, and to lack her joy.

Even as poor birds, deceiv'd with painted grapes,
Do surfeit by the eye, and pine the maw:
Even so the languisheth in her mishaps,
As thuse poor birds, that helplefs berries faw.

The warm effects which she in him finds missing,
She seeks to kindle with continual killing.

But all in vain, good queen, it will not be.
She hath assay'd as much, as may be prov'd,
Her pleading hath deserv'd a greater fee:
She's love, she loves, and yet fhe is not lov’d-!

Fie, fie, he says, you crush me, let me go-;
You have no reason to with-hold me fo.

Thou hadft been gone (quoth she) sweet boy, ere this,
But that thou told'ft-me thou would'st hunt the boar:
O! be advis'd ; thou know ft not what it is,
With javelin's point a churlifh (wine to gore,

Whose tushes never sheath'd, he wetteth still,
Like to a mortal butcher, bent to kill.

On his bow-back he hath a battel fet
Of bristly pikes, ihat ever threat his foes ;
His eyes, like glow-worms, shine when he doth fret,
His snout digs fepulchres where'er he goes:

Being mov'd, he strikes whate’er is in his way;
And whom he strikes, his crooked tulhes llay.

His brawny sides, with hairy brilles armed,
Are better proof, than thy spear's point can enter's
His short thick neck cannot be easily harmed;
Being ireful on the lion he will venture.

The thorny brambles, and embracing bushes,
As fearful of him, part, thro' whom he rushes.

Alas! he nought efteems that face of thine,
To which love's eye pays tributary gazes ;
Nor thy soft hand, sweet lips, and cryftal eyne,
Whose full perfection all the world amazes ;

But having thee at 'vantage (wondrous dread!)
Would root these beauties, as he roots the mead.

0! let him keep his loathsome cabin ftill!
Beauty hath nought to do with fuch 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 diflemble,
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 breaft.

For where love reigns, disturbing jealousy
Doth call himself affection's centinel ;
Gives false alarms, suggesteth mutiny,
And in a peaceful hour doth cry, kill, kill ;

Distempring gentle love with his desire,
As air and water doth abate the fire,

This four informer, this bate breeding spy,
This canker, that eats up love's tender spring,
This carry-tale, diffentious jealousy,
That sometime true news,' sometime false doth bring;

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
The picture of an angry chafing boar,
Under whose sharp fangs, on his back doth lie
An image like thyself, all stain’d with gore;

Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed,
Doth make 'em drop with grief, and hang the head.

What should I do? seeing thee fo indeed ?
That trembling at th’imagination,
The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed,
And fear doth teach it divination.

I prophely thy death, my living forrow,
If thou encounter with the boar to-morrow.

But if thou needs will hunt, be rul'd by me,
Uncouple at the timorous flying hare ;
Or at the fox, which lives by subtilty;
Or at the roe, which no encounter dare :

Pursue these fearful creatures o'er the downs,
And on thy well-breath'd horse keep with thy

[hounds.
And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare,
Mark the poor wretch; to overfhut his troubles,
How he out-runs the wind, and with what care,
He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles.

The many umfits thro' the which he goes,
Are like a labyrinth t' amaze his foes.

B

Sometime he runs among the flock of sheep,
To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell;
And sometime where earth-delving conies keep,
To stop the loud pursuers in their yell ;

And sometime forteth with a herd of deer :
Danger deviseth shifts, wit waits on fear.

For there his smell with others being iningled,
The hot scent snuffing hounds are driven to doubt,
Ceasing their clamorous cry, till they have singled,
With much ado, the cold fault cleanly out,

Then do they spend their mouths ; echo replies,
As if another chase were in the skies.

By this poor Wat far off, upon a hill,
Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,
To hearken if his foes pursue him ftill :
Anon their loud alarums he doth hear,

And now his grief may be compared well
To one sore sick, that hears the passing bell.

Then shalt thou see the dew bedabled wretch
Turn, and return, indenting with the way :
Each envious briar his weary legs doth scratch,
Each fhadow makes him stop, each murmur stay.

For misery is trodden on by many;
And being low, never reliev'd by any.

Lie quietly and hear a little more,
Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise :
To make thee hate the hunting of the boar,
Unlike myself, thou hear'lt me moralize,

Applying this to that, and so to fo;
For love can comment upon every woe.

Where did I leave ? No matter where (quoth he)
Leave me, and then the story aptly ends :
The night is spent. Why, what of that? (quoth lac)
I am (quoth he) expected of my friends :

And now 'tis dark, and going I shall fall,
In night (quoth ske) desire fees best of all.

But if thou fall, O! then imagine this,
The earth in love with thee, thy footing trips,
And all is but to rob thee of a kiss.
Rich preys make rich men thieves, so do thy lips

Make modest Dian cloudy and forlorn,
Left she should steal a kiss, and die forsworn.

Now of this dark night I perceive the reason,
Cynthia for shame obscures her filver shrine,
Till forging nature be condemn'd of treason,
For stealing molds from heaven, that were divine,

Wherein the fram'd thee in high heaven's despite,
To fame the fun by day, and her by night.

And therefore hath the brib'd the destinies i
To'cross the curious workmanship of nature,
To mingle beauty with infirmities,
And pure perfection with impure defeature;

Making it subject to the tyranny
Of fad mischances and much misery.

1

A

As burning fever, agues pale and faint,
Life-poisoning pestilence, and frenzies woad, In
The marrow-eating fickness, whose attaint!!
Disorder breeds by heating of the blood :

Surfeits, imposthumes, grief, and damn'd despair,
Swear nature's death, for framing thee so fair.

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