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And not the least of all these maladies,
But in one minute's sight brings beauty under:
Both favour, favour, hue and qualities,
Whereat th' imperial gazer late did wonder,

Are on the sudden wasted, thaw'd, and done,
As mountain snow melts with the mid-day fun.

Therefore, despite of fruitless chastity,
Love-lacking vestals, and self-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 posterity,
Which by the rights of time thou needs must have,
If thou destroy them not in their obfcurity ?

If so, the world will hold thee in disdain,
Sith in thy pride fo fair a hope is Nain.

So in thyself thyself art made away,
A mischief worse than civil home-bred ftrife,
Or theirs, whose desperate hands themselves do flay,
Or butcher's fire, that reaves his son of life.

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

Nay then, quoth Adon, you will fall again

idle over - handled theam ;
The kiss I gave you is bestow'd in vain,
And all in vain you strive against the stream.

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

If love hath lent you (wenty thousand tongues,
And every tongue more moving than your own,
Bewitching like the wanton mermaid's fongs,
Yer from mine ear the tempting tune is blown,

For know, my heart stands armed in my ear,
And will not let a false found enter there :

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

No, lady, no, my heart longs not to groan,
But soundly sleeps, 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 increase ; O strange excuse !
When reason is the bawd to luft's abuse.

Call it not love, for love to heaven is fled,
Since sweating luft on earth usurps his name;
Under whose fimple semblance he hath fed
Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame :

Which the hot tyrant ftains, and soon bereaves,
As caterpillars do the tender leaves.

Love comforteth like sun-fhine after rain ;
But luft's effect is tempeft after sun :
Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain :
Luft's winter comes, ere summer half be done :

Love surfeits not ; luft like a glutton dies :
Love is all truth; lust full of forged lyes

More I could tell, but more I dare not say;
The text is old, the orator too green:
Therefore in sadness now I will away,
My face is full of shame, my heart of teen :

Mine ears, that to your wanton calls attended;
Do burn themselves for having so offended.

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

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


Which after him she darts, as one on shore,
Gazing upon a late embarked friend,
Till the wild waves will have him feen no more,
Whose 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 stonish'd, as night-wanderers often are,
Their light blown out in some mistruftful wood:

Even so confounded in the dark she lay,
Having lost the fair discovery of her way.

And now the beats her heart, whereat it groans,
That all the neighbour caves, as seeming troubled,
Make verbal repetition of her moans :
Pallion on passion deeply is redoubled.

Ay me! she cries, and twenty times, woe! woe !
And twenty echoes twenty times



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 still concludes in woe!
And still the choir of echoes answers fo.

Her song was tedious, and out-wore the night,
For lovers hours are long, tho’ seeming short :
If pleas'd themselves, others they think delight
In such-like circumstance, with such-like sport.

Their copious stories, oftentimes begun,
End without audience, and are never done.

For who hath the to spend the night withal,
But idle sounds, resembling parasites ?
Like Thrill-tongu'd tapsters answering every call,
Soothing the humour of fantastick wits.

She said, 'tis fo: they answer all, 'tis fo,
And would say, after her, if the said no.

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

Who doth the world so gloriously behold,
The cedar-tops and hills seem 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 shining star doth borrow
The beauteous influence, that makes him bright ::

There lives a son, that suck' an earthly mother,
May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other.

This faid, fhe hafteth to a myrtle grove,
Mufing the morning is so much o'er-worn :
And yet she hears no tidings of her love :
She hearkens for his hounds, and for his horn ;

Anon fhe hears them chaunt it lustily,
And all in hafte she coasteth to the


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

Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ake,
Hasting to feed ber fawn, bid in some brake.

By this the hears the hounds are at a bay,
Whereat she starts, like one that fpies an adder,
Wreath'd up in fatal folds, just in his way,
The fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder:

Ev'n so the timorous yelping of the hounds,
Appals her senses, and her fp'rit confounds.

For now she knows it is no gentle chase,
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 so curft,
They all strain curt'sy who shall cope him firsta

This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear,
Tbro' which it enters, to surprize ber heart;
Who overcome by doubt and bloodless fear,
With cold pale weakness numbs each feeling part :

Like soldiers, when their captain once doth yield;
They bafely ily, and dare not stay the field.

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