And not the least of all these maladies,
But in one minute's fight brings beauty under:
Both favour, favour, hue and qualities,

Whereat th' imperial gazer late did wonder,

Are on the fudden wafted, thaw'd, and done, As mountain fnow melts with the mid-day fun.

Therefore, despite of fruitless chastity,
Love-lacking veftals, and felf-loving nuns,
That on the earth would breed a scarcity,
And barren dearth of daughters and of fons,
Be prodigal. The lamp that burns by night,
Dries up his oil, to lend the world his light.

What is thy body, but a swallowing grave,
Seeming to bury that pofterity,

Which by the rights of time thou needs must have,
If thou deftroy them not in their obfcurity?

If fo, the world will hold thee in difdain,
Sith in thy pride fo fair a hope is slain.

So in thyself thyself art made away,

A mischief worfe than civil home-bred ftrife,
Or theirs, whose desperate hands themfelves do flay,
Or butcher's fire, that reaves his fon of life.

Foul cankering ruft the hidden treasure frets;
But gold, that's put to use, more gold begets.

Nay then, quoth Adon, you will fall again
Into your idle over handled theam;
The kifs I gave you is bestow'd in vain,
And all in vain you strive against the stream.

For by this black-fac'd night, defire's foul nurse,
Your treatise makes me like you worse and worse.

If love hath lent you twenty thousand tongues, And every tongue more moving than your own, Bewitching like the wanton mermaid's fongs, Yet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown, For know, my heart ftands armed in my ear, And will not let a false found enter there :

Left the deceiving harmony should run
Into the quiet clofure of my breast;
And then my little heart were quite undone,
In his bedchamber to be barr'd of reft.

No, lady, no, my heart longs not to groan, But foundly fleeps, while now it sleeps alone.

What have you urg'd, that I cannot reprove?
The path is smooth that leadeth unto danger.
I hate not love, but your device in love,
That lends embracements unto every ftranger.
You do it for increafe; O ftrange excufe!
When reafon is the bawd to luft's abufe.

Call it not love, for love to heaven is fled,
Since fweating luft on earth ufurps his name;
Under whofe fimple semblance he hath fed
Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame:
Which the hot tyrant ftains, and foon bereaves,
As caterpillars do the tender leaves.

Love comforteth like fun-fhine after rain;
But luft's effect is tempeft after fun :

Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain:
Luft's winter comes, ere fummer half be done :

Love surfeits not;
Love is all truth;

luft like a glutton dies : luft full of forged lyes..

More I could tell, but more I dare not fay;
The text is old, the orator too green:
Therefore in fadness now I will away,
My face is full of fhame, my heart of teen :
Mine ears, that to your wanton calls attended,
Do burn themselves for having so offended.

With this, he breaketh from the fweet embrace
Of those fair arms, which bound him to her breaft
And homeward thro' the dark lanes runs apace;
Leaves Love upon her back deeply diftrefs'd.

Look how a bright ftar fhooteth from the sky,
So glides he in the night from Venus' eye.

Which after him the darts, as one on fhore,
Gazing upon a late embarked friend,

Till the wild waves will have him feen no more,
Whofe ridges with the meeting clouds contend :
So did the merciless and pitchy night,

Fold in the Object, that did feed her fight.

Whereat amaz'd, as one that unaware
Hath dropt a precious jewel in the flood;
Or ftonish'd, as night-wanderers often are,
Their light blown out in fome miftruftful wood:
Even fo confounded in the dark the lay,
Having loft the fair discovery of her way.

And now the beats her heart, whereat it groans,
That all the neighbour caves, as feeming troubled,
Make verbal repetition of her moans:

Paflion on paffion deeply is redoubled.

Ay me! fhe cries, and twenty times, woe! woe!
And twenty echoes twenty times cry fo.

She marking them, begins a wailing note,
And fings extemp'rally a woful ditty:

How love makes young men thrall, and old men dose;
How love is wife in folly, foolish witty:

Her heavy anthem ftill concludes in woe!
And ftill the choir of echoes anfwers fo.

Her fong was tedious, and out-wore the night,
For lovers hours are long, tho' feeming fhort:
If pleas'd themselves, others they think delight
In fuch like circumftance, with fuch-like fport.
Their copious ftories, oftentimes begun,

End without audience, and are never done.

For who hath the to spend the night withal,
But idle founds, refembling parasites?
Like fhrill-tongu'd tapfters anfwering every call,
Soothing the humour of fantaftick wits.

She faid, 'tis fo: they answer all, 'tis so,
And would fay after her,. if she said no.

Lo! here the gentle lark, weary of rest,
From his moist cabinet mounts up on high,
And wakes the morning, from whofe filver breast
The fun arifeth in his majesty:

Who doth the world fo gloriously behold,
The cedar-tops and hills feem burnish'd gold.

Venus falutes him with this fair good-morrow:
O thou clear god, and patron of all light!
From whom each lamp and fhining ftar doth borrow
The beauteous influence, that makes him bright ::
There lives a fon, that suck'd an earthly mother,
May lend thee light, as thou doft lend to other.

This faid, fhe hafteth to a myrtle grove,
Mufing the morning is fo much o'er-worn:
And yet the hears no tidings of her love:
She hearkens for his hounds, and for his horn;
Anon fhe hears them chaunt it luftily,
And all in hafte fhe coafteth to the cry.

And as the runs, the bushes in the way,
Some catch her by the neck, fome kifs her face,
Some twine about her thigh, to make her stay;
She wildly breaketh from their ftrict embrace,

Like a milch doe, whose fwelling dugs do ake,
Hafting to feed her fawn, hid in some brake.

By this the hears the hounds are at a bay,
Whereat the ftarts, like one that fpies an adder,
Wreath'd up in fatal folds, juft in his way,

The fear whereof doth make him fhake and fhudder:
Ev'n fo the timorous yelping of the hounds,
Appals her fenfes, and her fp'rit confounds.

For now fhe knows it is no gentle chafe,
But the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud;
Because the cry remaineth in one place,
Where fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud:
Finding their enemy to be fo curft,

They all ftrain curt'fy who fhall cope him firft.

This difmal cry rings fadly in her ear,
Thro' which it enters, to furprize her heart;
Who overcome by doubt and bloodless fear,
With cold pale weakness numbs each feeling part :
Like foldiers, when their captain once doth yield;
They bafely fly, and dare not ftay the field.