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But he that hath the feeling taste of love
Derives his essence from no earthly toy;
A weak conceit his power cannot approve,
For earthly thoughts are subject to annoy.
Be whist, be still, be silent, censors, now:
My fellow swain has told a pretty tale,
Which modern poets may perhaps allow,
Yet I condemu the terms, for they are stale.
Apollo, when my mistress first was born,
Cut off his locks, and left them on her head,
And said, I plant these wires in nature's scorn,
Whose beauties shall appear when time is dead.
From forth the crystal heaven when she was made
The purity thereof did taint her brow,

On which the glistering sun that sought the shade 'Gan set, and there his glories doth avow.

Those eyes, fair eyes, too fair to be described,
Were those that erst the chaos did reform;
To whom the heavens their beauties have ascribed,
That fashion life in man, in beast, in worm.
When first her fair delicious cheeks were wrought,
Aurora brought her blush, the moon her white;
Both so combined as passed nature's thought,
Compiled those pretty orbs of sweet delight.
When Love and Nature once were proud with play,
From both their lips her lips the coral drew;
On them doth fancy sleep, and every day
Doth swallow joy, such sweet delights to view.
Whilom while Venus' son did seek a bower
To sport with Psyche, his desirèd dear,
He chose her chin, and from that happy stowre*
He never stints in glory to appear.

This word is used in several significations by the old writers, but chiefly as conflict, battle, disorder. Here it implies a particular moment of time.

Desires and Joys, that long had served Love,
Besought a hold where pretty eyes might woo them:
Love made her neck, and for their best behove
Hath shut them there, whence no man can undo them.
Once Venus dreamed upon two pretty things,
Her thoughts they were affection's chiefest nests;
She sucked and sighed, and bathed her in the springs,
And when she waked, they were my mistress' breasts.
Once Cupid sought a hold to couch his kisses,
And found the body of my best beloved,
Wherein he closed the beauty of his blisses,
And from that bower can never be removed.
The Graces erst, when Acidalian springs
Were waxen dry, perhaps did find her fountain
Within the vale of bliss, where Cupid's wings
Do shield the nectar fleeting from the mountain.
No more, fond man: things infinite I see
Brook no dimension; hell a foolish speech;
For endless things may never talkèd be;
Then let me live to honour and beseech.

Sweet nature's pomp,

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Hath stained thy glories by too little skill,

Yield pardon, though mine eye that long did gaze
Hath left no better pattern to my quill.

I will no more, no more will I detain
Your listening ears with dalliance of my tongue;
I speak my joys, but yet conceal my pain,
My pain too old, although my years be young.

DORON'S ECLOGUE, JOINED WITH CARMELA'S

DORON.

SIT down, Carmela; here are cobs for kings,
Sloes black as jet, or like my Christmas shoes,
Sweet cider, which my leathern bottle brings;
Sit down, Carmela, let me kiss thy toes.

CARMELA.

Ah, Doron! ah, my heart! thou art as white,
As is my mother's calf or brinded cow;

Thine eyes are like the glow-worms* in the night;
Thine hairs resemble thickest of the snow.

The lines within thy face are deep and clear,
Like to the furrows of my father's wain;
Thy sweat upon thy face doth oft appear
Like to my mother's fat and kitchen gain.

Ah, leave my toe, and kiss my lips, my love!
My lips are thine, for I have given them thee;
Within thy cap 'tis thou shalt wear my glove;
At foot-ball sport thou shalt my champion be.

DORON.

Carmela dear, even as the golden ball
That Venus got, such are thy goodly eyes;
When cherries' juice is jumbled therewithal,
Thy breath is like the steam of apple-pies.
Thy lips resemble two cucumbers fair;
Thy teeth like to the tusks of fattest swine;
Thy speech is like the thunder in the air;
Would God, thy toes, thy lips, and all were mine!

CARMELA.

Doron, what thing doth move this wishing grief?

DORON.

'Tis love, Carmela, ah, 'tis cruel love!

That like a slave and caitiff villain thief,
Hath cut my throat of joy for thy behove.

Where was he born?

CARMELA.

• Slow-worms in former editions-apparently a mistake

DORON.

In faith, I know not where:

But I have heard much talking of his dart;
Ah me, poor man! with many a trampling tear
I feel him wound the forehearse of my heart.
What, do I love? O no, I do but talk:
What, shall I die for love? O no, not so:
What, am I dead? O no, my tongue doth walk:
Come, kiss, Carmela, and confound my woe.

CARMELA.

Even with this kiss, as once my father did,
I seal the sweet indentures of delight:
Before I break my vow the gods forbid,
No, not by day, nor yet by darksome night.

DORON.

Even with this garland made of hollyhocks,
I cross thy brows from every shepherd's kiss:
Heigh ho! how glad I am to touch thy locks!
My frolic heart even now a freeman is.

CARMELA.

I thank you, Doron, and will think on you;
I love you, Doron, and will wink on you.
I seal your charter patent with my thumbs:
Come, kiss and part, for fear my mother comes.

WHA

SONNETTO.

HAT thing is love? It is a power divine,
That reigns in us, or else a wreakful law,
That dooms our minds to beauty to incline:
It is a star, whose influence doth draw

Our hearts to love, dissembling of his might
Till he be master of our hearts and sight.

Love is a discord, and a strange divorce

Betwixt our sense and reason, by whose power,
As mad with reason, we admit that force,
Which wit or labour never may devour:

It is a will that brooketh no consent;

It would refuse, yet never may repent. Love's a desire, which for to wait a time, Doth lose an age of years, and so doth pass, As doth the shadow, severed from his prime, Seeming as though it were, yet never was;

Leaving behind nought but repentant thoughts Of days ill spent, for that which profits noughts. It's now a peace, and then a sudden war; A hope consumed before it is conceived; At hand it fears, and menaceth afar; And he that gains is most of all deceived:

It is a secret hidden and not known,

Which one may better feel than write upon.

FROM PERIMEDES, THE BLACKSMITH.*

MADRIGAL.

THE swans, whose pens as white as ivory,
Eclipsing fair Endymion's silver love,

Floating like snow down by the banks of Po,
Ne'er tuned their notes, like Leda once forlorn,

Perimedes, the Blacksmith. A Golden Method how to use the mind in pleasant and profitable exercise: wherein is contained special principles fit for the highest to imitate, and the meanest to put in practice, how best to spend the weary winter's nights, or the longest summer's evenings, in honest and delightful recreation. wherein we may learn to avoid idleness and wanton scurrility, which divers appoint as the end of their pastimes. Herein are interlaced three merry and necessary discourses fit for our time; with certain pleasant histories and tragical tales, which may breed delight to all, and offence to none. Omne tulit punctum, qui miscuit utile dulci. 1588.

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