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You do it for increase ; O strange excuse !
When reason is the bawd to lust's abuse.
Call it not love, for love to heaven is filed,
Since sweating lust on earth usurps his name;
Under whose simple semblance he hath fed
Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame:
Which the hot tyrant stains, and soon bereaves,
As caterpillars do the tender leaves.
Love comforteth like sun-shine after rain;
But lust's effect is tempest after sun :
Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain;
Lust's winter comes ere summer half be done ;
Love surfeits not; lust like a glutton dies :
Love is all truth ; 'lust full of forged lies.
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.
With this, he breaketh from the sweet embrace
Of those fair arms, which bound him to her breast:
And homeward through the dark lanes runs apace;
Leaves Love upon her back deeply distress'd.
Look how a bright star 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,
T:ll the wild waves will have him seen no more,
Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend:
So did the merciless and pitchy night,
Fold in the object that did feed her sight.
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 mistrustful wood:
Even so confounded in the dark she lay,
Having lost the fair discovery of her way.
And now she beats her heart, whereat it groans,
That all the neighbour caves, as seeming troubled,
Make verbal repetition of her moans;
Passion on passion deeply is redoubled.
Ah, me! she cries, and twenty times, woe! woe!
And twenty echoes twenty times cry so.
She marking them, begins a wailing note,
And sings extemp'rally a woful ditty ;
How love makes young men thrall, and old men dote ;
How love is wise in folly, foolish witty ;
Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe!
And still the choir of echoes answers so.
Her song was tedious, and outwore the night,
For lovers' hours are long, though seeming short;
If pleas'd themselves, others they think delight
In such-like circumstance with such-like sport.
T copious stories oftentimes begun,
End without audience, and are never done.
For who hath she to spend the night withal,
But idle sounds, resembling parasites ?
Like shrill-tongu'd tapsters answering every call,
Soothing the humour of fantastic wits.
She said, 'tis so; they answer all, 'tis so.
And would say 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 whose silver breast The sun ariseth in his majesty ;
Who doth the world so gloriously behold,
The cedar-tops and hills seem burnish'd gold. Venus salutes him with this fair good-morrow; O thou dear god, and patron of all light ! From whom each lamp and shining star both borrow The beauteous influence that makes him bright;
There lives a son, that suck'd an earthly mother,
May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other.
This said, she hasted to a myrtle grove,
Musing the morning is so much o'erworn;
And yet she hears no tidings of her love:
She hearkens for his hounds, and for his horn ;
Anon she hears them chaunt it lustily,
And all in haste she coasteth to the cry.
And as she runs, the bushes in the way,
Some catch her by the neck, some 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 ache,
Hasting to feed her fawn, hid in some brake.
By this she hears the hounds are at a bay,
Whereat she starts like one that spies an adder,
Wreath'd up in fatal folds, just in his way,
The fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder;
E'en so the timorous yelping of the hounds,
Appals her senses, and her sp'rits confounds.
For now she knows it is no gentle chace,
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 curst,
They all strain curt’sy, who shall cope him first.
This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear,
Through which it enters to surprize her 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 basely fly, and dare not stay the field.
Thus stands she in a trembling extasy,
Till cheering up her senses sore dismay'd,
She tells them 'tis a causeless fantasy,
And childish error, that they are afraid ;
Bids them leave quaking, wills them fear no more ;
And with that word, she spy'd the hunted boar,
Whose frothy mouth bepainted all with red,
Like milk and blood being mingled both together,
A second fear through all her sinews spread,
Which madly hurries her she knows not whither.
This way she runs, and now she will no further,
But back retires, to rate the boar for murther,
A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways,
She treads the path that she untreads again ;
Her more than haste is marred with delays;
Like the proceedings of a drunken brain,
Full of respect, yet not at all respecting;
In hand with all things, nought at all effecting.
Here kennell'd in a brake, she finds an hound,
And asks the weary caitiff for his master;
And there another licking of his wound,
'Gainst venom'd sores the only sovereign plaster:
And here, she meets another sadly scolding,
To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling When he had ceas'd his ill-resounding noise, Another flap-mouth'd mourner, black and grim, Against the welkin vollies out his voice; Another and another answer him,
Clapping their proud tails to the ground below,
Shaking their scratcht ears, bleeding as they go.
Look! how the world's poor people are amaz’d
At apparitions, signs and prodigies,
Whereon, with fearful eyes, they long have gaz'd,
Infusing them with dreadful prophecies;
So she, at these sad signs, draws up her breath,
And sighing it again, exclaims on death.
Hard-favour'd tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean,
Hateful divorce of love (thus chides she death)
Grim-grinning ghost, earth's worm, what dost thou mean
To stife beauty, and to steal his breath,
Who when he liv'd, his breath and beauty set
Gloss on the rose, smell to the violet?
If he be dead, oh no! it cannot be,
Seeing his beauty, thou should'st strike at it.
O! yes, it may; thou hast no eyes to see,
But hatefully at random dost thou hit.
Thy mark is feeble age ; but thy false dart
Mistakes that aim, and cleaves an infant's heart:
Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke,
And hearing him, thy power had lost its power.
The destinies will curse thee for this stroke,
They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck'st a flower:
Love's golden arrow at him should have fled,
And not death's ebon dart, to strike him dead.
Dost thou drink tears, that thou provok'st such weeping?
What may a heavy groan advantage thee?
Why hast thou cast into eternal sleeping
Those eyes, that taught all other eyes to see?
Now nature cares not for thy mortal vigour,
Since her best work is ruin'd with thy rigour.
Here overcome, as one full of despair,
She veil'd her eye-lids, which like sluices stopp'd
The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair,
In the sweet channel of her bosom dropp'd.
But thro' the flood-gates breaks the silver rain,
And with his strong course opens them again.
O! how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow!
Her eyes seen in her tears, tears in her eyes ;
Both crystals, where they view'd each other's sorrow :
Sorrow, that friendly sighs sought still to dry.
But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain;
Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again.
Variable passions throng her constant woe,
As striving which should best become her grief;
All entertain'd, each passion labours so,
That every present sorrow seemeth chief.
But none is best, then join they all together,
many clouds consulting for foul weather.
By this, far off, she hears some huntsman hollow:
A nurse's song ne'er pleas'd her babe so well.
The dire imagination she did follow,
This sound of hope doth labour to expel ;
For now reviving joy bids her rejoice,
And flatters her, it is Adonis' voice.
Whereat her tears began to turn their tide,
Being prison'd in her eye, like pearls in glass :