"Look, the world's comforter, with weary gait, His day's hot task hath ended in the west: The owl, night's herald, shrieks, 't is very late;

The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest; The coal-black clouds that shadow Heaven's light, Do summon us to part, and bid good night.

"Now let me say good night, and so say you; If you will say so, you shall have a kiss." "Good night," quoth she; and ere he says adieu, The honey fee of parting tender'd is: Her arms do lend his neck a sweet embrace; Incorporate then they seem; face grows to face.

Till, breathless, he disjoin'd, and backward drew The heavenly moisture, that sweet coral mouth, Whose precious taste her thirsty lips well knew,

Whereon they surfeit, yet complain on drought: He with her plenty press'd, she faint with dearth, (Their lips together glew'd) fali to the earth.

Now quick desire hath caught her yielding prey, And glutton-like she feeds, yet never filleth; Her lips are conquerors, his lips obey,

Paying what ransom the insulter willeth; Whose vulture thought doth pitch the price so high, That she will draw his lips' rich treasure dry.

And having felt the sweetness of the spoil,

With blind-fold fury she begins to forage; Her face doth reek and smoke, her blood doth boil, And careless lust stirs up a desperate courage; Planting oblivion, beating reason back, Forgetting shame's pure blush, and honour's wrack.

Hot, faint, and weary, with her hard embracing, Like a wild bird being tam'd with too much handling,

Or as the fleet-foot roe, that 's tir'd with chasing,
Or like the froward infant, still'd with dandling,
He now obeys, and now no more resisteth,
While she takes all she can, not all she listeth.

What wax so frozen but dissolves with temp'ring,

And yields at last to every light impression? Things out of hope are compass'd oft with vent'ring,

Chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission: Affection faints not like a pale-fac'd coward, But then woos best, when most his choice is froward. When he did frown, O had she then gave over,

Such nectar from his lips she had not suck'd. Foul words and frowns must not repel a lover;

What though the rose have pricks? yet is it Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast, [pluck'd: Yet love oreaks through, and picks them all at last. For pity now she can no more detain him;

The poor fool prays her that he may depart: She is resolv'd no longer to restrain him;

Bids him farewell, and look well to her heart, The which, by Cupid's bow she doth protest, He carries thence incaged in his breast.

"Sweet boy," she says, "this night I'll waste in sor.

row,

For my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch. Tell me, love's master, shall we meet to morrow?

"The boar !" quoth she; whereat a sudden paie, Like lawn being spread upon the blushing rose, Usurps her cheeks; she trembles at his tale,

And on his neck her yoking arms she throws: She sinketh down, still hanging on his neck, He on her belly falls, she on her back.

Say, shall we? shall we? wilt thou make the He tells her, no; to morrow he intends [match?" To hunt the boar with certain of his friends.

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, although 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 she languisheth in her mishaps,

As those poor birds that helpless berries saw : The warm effects which she in him finds missing, She seeks to kindle with continual kissing.

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 she is not lov'd. "Fie, fie!" he says, 66 you crush me; let me go; You have no reason to withhold me so."

"Thou hadst been gone,” quoth she, “sweet boy, ere this, [boar. But that thou told'st me, thou would'st hunt the O be advis'd; thou know'st not what it is

With javelin's point a churlish swine to gore, Whose tushes, never-sheath'd, he whetteth still, Like to a mortal butcher, bent to kill.

"On his bow-back he hath a battle set

Of bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes; His eyes, like glow-worms shine when he doth fret; His snout digs sepulchres where'er he goes; Being mov'd, he strikes whate'er is in his way, And whom he strikes his crooked tushes slay.

"His brawny sides, with hairy bristles armed,

Are better proof than thy spear's point can enter; 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; through whom he rushes.

"Alas! he nought esteems that face of thine,

To which Love's eye pays tributary gazes; Nor thy soft hands, sweet lips, and crystal eyne,

Whose full perfection all the world amazes ; But having thee at vantage (wondrous dread!) Would root these beauties as he roots the mead.

"O! let him keep his loathsome cabin still;

Beauty hath nought to do with such foul fiends. Come not within his danger by thy will;

They that thrive well, take counsel of their friends. When thon did'st name the boar, not to dissemble, I fear'd thy fortune, and my joints did tremble.

"Did'st 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 breast.