Where her fair breasts at liberty were let,
Whose violet veins in branched riverets flow,
And Venus' swans and milky doves were set
Upon those swelling mounts of driven snow;
Whereon whilst Love to sport himself doth get,
He lost his way, nor back again could go,

But with those banks of beauty set about,
He wander'd still, yet never could get out.

Her loose hair look'd like gold (O word too base !
Nay, more than sin, but so to name her hair)
Declining, as to kiss her fairer face,

No word is fair enough for thing so fair,
Nor ever was there epithet could grace
That, by much praising which we much impair;
And where the pen fails, pencils cannot show it,
Only the soul may be supposed to know it.

She laid her fingers on his manly cheek,
The Gods' pure sceptres and the darts of Love,
That with their touch might make a tiger meek,
Or might great Atlas from his seat remove;
So white, so soft, so delicate, so sleek,
As she had worn a lily for a glove;

As might beget life where was never none,
And put a spirit into the hardest stone.

The fire of precious wood; the light perfume,
Which left a sweetness on each thing it shone,
As every thing did to itself assume

The scent from them, and made the same their own:
So that the painted flowers within the room
Were sweet, as if they naturally had grown;
The light gave colours, which upon them fell,
And to the colours the perfume gave smell.

When on those sundry pictures they devise,
And from one piece they to another run,
Commend that face, that arm, that hand, those eyes;
Show how that bird, how well that flower was done;
How this part shadow'd, and how that did rise,-
This top was clouded, how that trail was spun,—
The landscape, mixture, and delineatings,
And in that art a thousand curious things:

Looking upon proud Phaeton wrapt in fire, The gentle queen did much bewail his fall; But Mortimer commended his desire, To lose one poor life, or to govern all : "What though (quoth he) he madly did aspire, And his great mind made him proud Fortune's thrall?

Yet in despight, when she her worst had done, He perish'd in the chariot of the sun.”

"Phoebus (she said) was over-forced by art;
Nor could she find how that embrace could be."
But Mortimer then took the painter's part: [he:)
Why thus, bright empress, thus and thus, (quoth
That hand doth hold his back, and this his heart;
Thus their arms twine, and thus their lips, you see:
Now are you Phoebus, Hyacinthus I ;
It were a life, thus every hour to die."

When, by that time, into the castle-hall
Was rudely enter'd that well-armed rout,
And they within suspecting nought at all,
Had then no guard to watch for them without.
See how mischances suddenly do fall,
And steal upon us, being farth'st from doubt!
Our life's uncertain, and our death is sure,
And tow'rds most peril man is most secure.

Whilst youthful Nevil and brave Turrington,
To the bright queen that ever waited near,
Two with great March much credit that had won,
That in the lobby with the ladies were,
Staying delight, whilst time away did run,
With such discourse as women love to hear;
Charged on the sudden by the armed train,
Were at their entrance miserably slain.

When, as from snow-crown'd Skidow's lofty cliffs,
Some fleet-wing'd haggard, tow'rds herpreying hour,
Amongst the teal and moor-bred mallard drives,
And th' air of all her feather'd flock doth scow'r,
Whilst to regain her former height she strives,
The fearful fowl all prostrate to her power:
Such a sharp shriek did ring throughout the vault,
Made by the women at the fierce assault.

NYMPHIDIA, THE COURT OF FAIRY.
OLD Chaucer doth of Topas tell,
Mad Rab'lais of Pantagruel,
A later third of Dowsabel,

With such poor trifles playing:
Others the like have labour'd at,
Some of this thing, and some of that,
And many of they know not what,

But that they must be saying.
Another sort there be, that will
Be talking of the Fairies still,
Nor never can they have their fill,
As they were wedded to them:
No tales of them their thirst can slake,
So much delight therein they take,
And some strange thing they fain would make,
Knew they the way to do them.

Then since no muse hath been so bold,
Or of the later or the old,
Those elvish secrets to unfold,

Which lie from others' reading;
My active muse to light shall bring
The court of that proud Fairy King,
And tell there of the revelling:

Jove prosper my proceeding.
And thou Nymphidia, gentle Fay,
Which meeting me upon the way,
These secrets didst to me bewray,

Which now I am in telling:
My pretty light fantastic maid,
I here invoke thee to my aid,
That I may speak what thou hast said,
In numbers smoothly swelling.