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Stones, herbs, and flowers, the foolish spoils of earth,
Floods, metals, colours, dalliance of the eye;
These shew conceit is stain'd with too much dearth,
Such abstract fond compares make cunning die.
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 condemn 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 describ’d,
Were those that erst the chaos did reform ;
To whom the heavens their beauties have ascrib'd,
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 combin'd as passed nature's thought,
Compild 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 desired dear,
He chose her chin, and from that happy stowre *
He never stints in glory to appear.
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 dream'd upon two pretty things,
Her thoughts they were affection's chiefest nests;
She suck'd and sigh’d, and bath'd her in the springs,
And when she wak’d, they were my mistress' breasts.
Once Cupid sought a hold to couch his kisses,
And found the body of my best belov’d,
Wherein he clos'd the beauty of his blisses,
And from that bower can never be remov'd.
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 talked be;
Then let me live to honour and beseech.
* stowre] In old poetry frequently signifies tumult, disorder, battle, &c. : but here it means time,-an interpretation of the word, which is not given in any dictionary or glossary I have ever met with. Compare Lodge;
“Whose dire disdaine (the God that kindles loue, And makes impressions straungly from aboue Misliking) strake with fancie at that stower.”
Forbonius and Prisceria, 1584. Sig. I 2.
Sweet nature's pomp, if my deficient phrase
Hath stain’d 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.
Sit down, Carmela; here are cobs * for kings,
Sloes black as jet, or like my Christmas shoes,
Sweet cider, which my leathern bottle brings ;
Ah, Doron! ah, my heart! thou art as white,
As is my mother's calf or brinded cow;
Thine eyes are like the slow-worms in the night;
Thine hairs resemble thickest of the snow.
The lines within thy face are deep and clear,
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.
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!
Doron, what thing doth move this wishing grief?
"Tis love, Carmela, ah, 'tis cruel love! That like a slave and caitiff villain thief, Hath cut my throat of joy for thy behove.
* My lips are thine, for I have given them thee] The 4to. of 1589;
“My lippes and thine, for I have given it thee.”
DORON. In faith, I know not where: But I have heard * much talking of his dart; Aye me, poor man! with many a tramplingt tear I feel him wound the forehearset 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.
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.
Even with this garland made of hollyhocks,
I cross thy brows from every shepherd's kiss :
Heigh ho! how glad am I to touch thy locks!
My frolic heart even now a freeman is.
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.