- IV
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Sweet Cyterea, sitting by a brook |
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with young
Adonis, lovely, fresh and green, |
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did court the
lad with many a lovely look, |
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such looks as
none could look but beuty's queen. |
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She told him stories to delight his ear, |
5 |
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she show'd him
favours to allure his eye; |
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to win his
heart, she touch'd him here and there, |
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touches so soft
still conquer chastity. |
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But whether unripe years did want conceit, |
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or he refused to
take her figured proffer, |
10 |
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the tender
nibbler would not touch the bait, |
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but smile and
jest every gentle offer: |
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Then fell she on her back, fair queen, and
twomard: |
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He rose and ran
away; ah, fool too forward. |
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- V
-
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If love make me forsware, how shall I swear to
love? |
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O never faith
could hold, if not to beauty vowed: |
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Though to myself
forsworn, to thee I'll constant prove; |
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those thouggt,
to me like oaks, to thee like osiers bowed. |
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Study his bias leaves, and make his book thine
eyes, |
5 |
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where all those
pleasures live that art can comprehend. |
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If knowledge be
the mark, to know thee shall suffice; |
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well learned is
that tongue that well can thee commend: |
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All ignorant that soul that sees thee without
wonder; |
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which is to me
some praise, that I thy parts admire: |
10 |
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Thine eye Jove's
lightning seems, thy voice his dreadful thunder, |
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which, not to
anger bent, is music and sweet fire. |
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Celestial as thou art, O do not love that
wrong, |
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to sing heaven's
praise with such an earthly tongue. |
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- VII
-
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Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle, |
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mild as a dove,
but neither true nor trusty, |
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brighter than
glass and yet, as glass is, brittle, |
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softer than wax
and yet as iron rusty: |
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A lily pale,
with damask dye to grace her, |
5 |
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none fairer, nor
none falser to deface her. |
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Her lips to mine how often hath she joined, |
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between each
kiss her oaths of true love swearing! |
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How many tales
to please me hath she coined, |
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dreading my
love, the loss thereof still fearing! |
10 |
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Yet in the midst
of all her pure protestings, |
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her faith, her
oaths, her tears, and all were jestings. |
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She burn'd with love, as straw with fire
flameth; |
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she burn'd out
love, as soon as straw out-burneth: |
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She framed the
love, and yet she foil'd the framing; |
15 |
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she bade love
last, and yet she fell a-turning. |
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Was this a
lover, or a lecher whether? |
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Bad in the best,
though excellent in neithet. |
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- IX
-
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Fair was the morn when the fair queen of love |
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paler for sorrow
that her milk-white dove |
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for Adonis sake,
a youngster proud and wild; |
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her stand she
takes upon a steep-up hill: |
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Anon Adonis
comes with horn and hounds; |
5 |
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she, silly
queen, with more that love's good will, |
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forbade the boy
he should not pass those grounds: |
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«Once», quoth she, «did I see fair sweet
youth |
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here in these
brakes deep-wounded with a boar, |
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deep in the
thigh, a spectacle of ruth! |
10 |
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See in my
thigh», quoth she, «here was the
sore.» |
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She showed hers:
he saw more wounds tan one, |
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and blushing
fled, and left her all alone. |
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- XI
-
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Venus, with young Adonis sitting by her |
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under a myrtle
shade, began to woo him: |
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She told the
youngling how god Mars did try her, |
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and as he fell
to her, so fell she to him. |
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«Even thus», quoth she, «the warlike god
embraced me.» |
5 |
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And then she
clipp'd Adonis in her arms; |
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«Even
thus», quoth she, «the warlike god unlaced
me.» |
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As if the boy
should use like loving charms; |
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«Even thus», quoth she, «he seized on my
lips», |
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and with her
lips on his did act the seizure: |
10 |
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And as she
fetched breath, away he skips, |
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and would not
take her meaning nor her pleasure. |
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Ah, that I had my lady at this bay, |
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to kiss and clip
me till I run away! |
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- XIV
-
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Good night, good rest. Ah, neither be my
share: |
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She bade good
night that kept y rest away; |
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and daff'd me to
a cabin hang'd with care, |
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to descant on
the doubts of my decay. |
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«Farewell», quoth she, «and come again
to-morrow»: |
5 |
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Fare well I
could not, for I supp'd with sorrow. |
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Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile, |
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in scorn or
friendship, nill I construe whether: |
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'T may be, she
joy'd to jest at mi exile. |
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'T may be, again
to make me wander thither: |
10 |
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«Wander», a word for shadows like
myself, |
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as take the
pain, but cannot pluck the pelf. |
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Lord, how mine eyes throw gazes to the east! |
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My heart doth
charge the watch; the morning rise |
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doth cite each
moving sense from idle rest. |
15 |
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Not daring trust
the office of mine eyes, |
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While Philomela
sits and singe, I sit and mark, |
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and wish her
lays were tuned like the lark; |
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For she doth welcome daylight with her ditty, |
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and drives away
dark dreaming night; |
20 |
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the night so
pack'd. I post unto my pretty; |
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heart hath his
hope and eyes their wished sight; |
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sorrow changed
to solace and mix'd with sorrow; |
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for why, she
sigh'd, and bade me come to-morrow. |
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Were I with her, the night would post too
soon; |
25 |
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but now are
minutes added to the hours; |
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to spite me now,
each minute seems a moon; |
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yet not for me,
shine sun to succour flowers! |
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Pack night, peep
day; good day, of night now borrow; |
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short, night,
to-noght, and length thyself to-morrow. |
30 |
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- XV
-
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It was a lording's daughter, the fairest one of
three, |
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that liked of
her master as well as well might be, |
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till looking on
an Englishman, the fair'st that eye could see, |
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her fancy fell
a-turning. |
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Long was the combat doubtful that love with love did
fight, |
5 |
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to leave the
master loveless, or kill the gallant knight: |
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To put in
practice either, alas, it was a spite |
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unto the silly
damsel! |
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But one must be refused; more mickle was the
pain |
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that nothing
could be used to turn them both to gain, |
10 |
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for of the two
the trusty knight was wounded with disdain: |
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Alas, she could
not help it! |
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Thus art with arms contending was victor of the
day |
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which by a gift
of learning did bear the maid away: |
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Then, lullaby,
the learned man hath got the lady gay; |
15 |
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and now my song
is ended |
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- XVII
-
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My flocks feed not, |
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my ewes breed
not, |
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my rams speed
not; |
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all is
amiss: |
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Love 's
denying, |
5 |
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faith's
defying, |
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heart's
denying, |
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causer of
this. |
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All my merry
jigs are quite forgot, |
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all my lady's
love is lost, God wot: |
10 |
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Where her faith
was firmly fix'd in love, |
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there a nay is
placed without remove. |
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One silly
cross |
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wrought all my
loss; |
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O frowning
Fortune, |
15 |
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cursed, fickle
dame! |
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For now I see
inconstancy |
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more in women
that in men remain. |
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In black mourn
I, |
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all fears scorn
I, |
20 |
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love hath
forlorn me, |
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living in
thrall: |
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Heart is
bleeding, |
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all help
needing, |
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O cruel
speeding, |
25 |
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fraughted with
gall |
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My shepherd's
pipe can sound no deal; |
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my wheter's bell
rings doleful knell; |
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my curtail dog,
that wont to have play'd, |
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plays not at
all, but seems afraid; |
30 |
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my sight so
deep |
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procure to
weep, |
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in howling wise,
to see my doleful plight. |
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How sight
resound, |
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through
heartless ground, |
35 |
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like a thousand
vanquish'd men in bloody fight! |
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Clear wells
spring not, |
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sweet birds sing
not, |
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green plants
bring not |
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forth their
dye; |
40 |
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herds stand
weeping, |
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flocks all
sleeping, |
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Nymphs back
peeping |
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fearfully: |
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All our pleasure
know to us poor swains, |
45 |
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all our merry
meetings on the plains, |
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all our love is
lost, for Love is dead. |
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Farewell, sweet
lass, |
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thy like ne'er
was |
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for a sweet
content, the cause of all my moan: |
50 |
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Poor
Coridon |
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must live
alone; |
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other help for
him I see that is none. |
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- XVIII
-
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|
When as thine eye hath chose the dame, |
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and stall'd the
deer that thou shouldst strike, |
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let reason rule
things worthy blame, |
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as well as
fancy, partial wight; |
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|
Take counsel of
some wiser head, |
5 |
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neither too
young nor yet unwed. |
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And when thou com'st thy tale to tell, |
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smooth not thy
tongue with filed talk, |
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lest she some
subtle practice smell,- |
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A cripple soon
can find a halt;- |
10 |
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But plainly say
thou lov'st her well, |
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and set by
person forth to sell. |
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And to her will frame all thy ways; |
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spare not to
spend, and chiefly there |
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where thy desert
may merit praise, |
15 |
|
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by ringing in
thy lady's ear. |
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The strongest
castle, tower and town, |
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the golden
bullet beats it down. |
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|
Serve always with assured trust, |
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|
and in thy suit
be humble true; |
20 |
|
|
unless thy lady
prove unjust, |
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|
press never thou
to choose a new. |
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When time shall
serve, be thou not slack |
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to proffer,
though she put thee back. |
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What though her frowning brows be bent. |
25 |
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|
her cloudy looks
will calm ere night; |
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|
and then too
late she will repent |
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that thus
dissembled her delight; |
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and twice
desire, ere it be day, |
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that which with
scorn put away. |
30 |
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|
What though she strive to try her strength, |
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|
and band and
brawl, and say thee nay, |
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|
her feeble force
will yield at length, |
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when craft hath
taught her thus to say: |
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«Had women
been so strong as men, |
35 |
|
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in faith, you
had not had it then.» |
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|
The wiles and guiles that women work, |
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|
dissembled with
an outward show, |
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the tricks and
toys that in them lurk, |
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the cock that
treads them shall not know. |
40 |
|
|
Have you not
heard it said full oft, |
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|
|
a women's nay
doth stand for nought? |
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|
Think women
still to strive with men, |
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|
to sin and never
for to saint; |
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|
there is no
heaven, by holy then, |
45 |
|
|
when time with
age shall them attaint. |
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|
Were kisses all
the joys in bed, |
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|
one woman would
another wed. |
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But soft; enough-too much, I fear- |
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|
lest that my
mistress hear my song; |
50 |
|
|
she will not
stick to round me on th'ear, |
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|
to teach tongue
to be so long. |
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|
Yet will she
blush, here be it said, |
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to hear her
secrets so bewray'd. |
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- XIX
-
|
|
Live with me, and be my love, |
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|
and we will all
the pleasures prove |
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that hills and
valleys, dales and fields, |
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and all the
craggy mountains yields. |
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|
There will we sit upon the rocks, |
5 |
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|
and see the
shepherds feed their flocks, |
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|
by shallow
rivers, by whose falls |
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|
melodious birds
sing madrigals. |
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There will I make thee a bed of roses, |
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with a thousand
fragrant posies, |
10 |
|
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a cap of
flowers, and a kirtle |
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|
embroidered all
with leaves of myrtle. |
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|
A belt of straw and ivy buds, |
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|
with coral claps
and amber studs; |
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|
and if these
pleasures may thee move, |
15 |
|
|
then live with
me and be my love. |
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|
Love's answer
|
|
If that the world and love were young, |
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|
and truth in
every shepherd's tongue, |
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|
these pretty
pleasures might me move |
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|
to live with
thee and be thy love. |
20 |
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- XX
-
|
|
As it fell upon a day |
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|
|
in the merry
month of May, |
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|
sitting in a
pleasant shade |
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|
which a grove of
myrtles made, |
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|
beasts did leap
and birds did sing, |
5 |
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|
trees did grow
and plants did spring; |
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|
every thing did
banish moan, |
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|
save the
nightingale alone. |
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|
She, poor bird,
as all forlorn, |
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|
lean'd her
breast up-till a thorn, |
10 |
|
|
and there sung
the dolefull'st ditty, |
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|
that to hear it
was great pity. |
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|
«Fie, fie,
fie» now would she cry; |
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|
«Teru,
Teru!» by and by; |
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|
that to hear her
so complain, |
15 |
|
|
scarce I could
from tears refrain; |
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|
for her griefs
so lively shown |
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|
made me think
upon mine own. |
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|
Ah, thought I,
thou mourn'sr in vain; |
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|
none takes pity
on thy pain. |
20 |
|
|
Senseless trees
they cannot hear thee; |
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|
ruthless beasts
they will not cheer thee. |
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|
King Pandion he
is dead; |
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|
all thy friends
are lapp'd in lead; |
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|
All thy fellow
birds do sing, |
25 |
|
|
careless of thy
sorrowing. |
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|
Even so, poor
bird, like thee, |
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|
none alive will
pity me. |
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|
Whilst as fickle
Fortune smiled, |
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|
thou and I were
both beguiled. |
30 |
|
|
Every one that
flatters thee |
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|
|
is no friend in
misery. |
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|
|
Words are easy,
like the wind; |
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|
|
faithful friends
are hard to find. |
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|
|
Every man will
be thy friend |
35 |
|
|
whilst thou hast
wherewith to spend; |
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|
|
but if store of
crowns be scant, |
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|
|
no man will
supply thy want. |
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|
|
If that one be
prodigal, |
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|
|
bountiful they
will him call, |
40 |
|
|
and with
such-like flattering, |
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|
|
«Pity but
he were a king»; |
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|
|
If he be addict
to vice, |
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|
|
quickly him they
will entice; |
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|
|
if to women he
be bent, |
45 |
|
|
they have at
commandment. |
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|
|
But if Fortuna
once do frown, |
|
|
|
then farewell
his great renown; |
|
|
|
they that fawn'd
on him before |
|
|
|
use his company
no more. |
50 |
|
|
He that is thy
friend indeed, |
|
|
|
he will help
thee in thy need. |
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|
|
If thou sorrow,
he will weep; |
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|
|
if thou wake, he
cannot sleep; |
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|
|
thus of every
grief in heart |
55 |
|
|
he with thee
doth bear a part. |
|
|
|
These are
certain sings to know |
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|
|
faithful friend
from flattering foe. |
|
|