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Fair queen (quoth he) if any love you owe me,
Measure my strangeness with my unripe years,
Before I know myself, seek not to know me,
No fisher but the ungrown fly forbears;

The mellow plumb doth fall, the green sticks fast,
Or being early pluck’d, is sour to taste.

Look, the world's comforter, with weary gait
His day's hot task hath ended in the west !
The owl, night's herald, shrieks, 'tis 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 tend'red 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 drowth:

He with her plenty press’d, she faint with dearth,
Their lips together glu’d, fall 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 prize so high
That she will draw his lips' rich treasure dry.

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And having felt the sweetness of the spoil,
With blindfold fury she begins to forage;
Her face doth reek and smoke, her blood doth boil,
And careless lost stirs up a desperate courage :

Planting oblivion, beating reason back;
Forgetting shame's pure blush, and honour's wreck.

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 wooes best, when most his choice is froward.


When he did frown, Oh, 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 tho' the rose have pricks, yet it is pluck’d:

Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast,
Yet love breaks thro', 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 farewel, and look well to her heart;

The which by Cupid's bow she doth protest,
He carries thence engaged in his breast.

Sweet boy, she says, this night I'll waste in sorrow,
For my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch.
Tell me, love's master, shall we meet to-morrow?
Say, shall we, shall we, wilt thou make the match ?

He tells her, No: to-morrow he intends
To hunt the boar with certain of his friends.

The boar! (quoth she) whereat a sudden pale,
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.


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, altho’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 pour birds, that helpless berries saw.

The warm effects which she in hinı finds missing,
She seeks to kindle with coutinual 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, you crush me, let ine go;
You have no reason to with-hold me so.

Thou hads't been gone (quoth she) sweet boy, ere this,
But that thou told'st me thou would'st hunt the boar:
Oh, 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 wetteth 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 bis 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 hand, 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 thou didst name the boar, not to dissemble
I fear'd thy fortune, and my joints did tremble.

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