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Lest jealousy, that sour unwelcome guest,
Should by his stealing in disturb the feast.

Once more the ruby-colour'd portal open'd,
Which to his speech did honey passage yield;
Like a red morn, that ever yet betoken'd
Wreck to the seamen, tempest to the field,
Sorrow to shepherds, woe unto the birds,
Gust and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds.

This ill presage advisedly she marketh,
Even as the wind is hush'd before it raineth,
Or as the wolf doth grin before he barketh,
Or as the berry breaks before it staineth,
Or like the deadly bullet of a gun,

His meaning struck her, ere his words begun.

And at his look she flatly falleth down,
For looks kill love, and love by looks reviveth;
A smile recures the wounding of a frown,
But blessed bankrupt, that by love so thriveth!
The silly boy believing she is dead,

Claps her pale cheek, till clapping makes it red,

And in amaze brake off his late intent,
For sharply did he think to reprehend her,
Which cunning love did wittily prevent,
Fair fall the wit, that can so well defend her;
For on the grass she lies, as she were slain,
Till his breath breath'd life into her again.

He wrings her nose, he strikes her on the cheeks,
He bends her fingers, holds her pulses hard,
He chafes her lips, a thousand ways he seeks
To mend the hurt, that his unkindness marr'd;
He kisses her, and she, by her good will,
Would never rise, so he would kiss her still.

The night of sorrow now is turn'd to day,
Her two blue windows faintly she up-heaveth,
Like the fair sun when in its fresh array

He cheers the morn and all the world relieveth:
And as the bright sun glorifies the sky,
So is her face illumin'd with her eye.

Whose beams upon his hairless face are fix'd,
As if from thence they borrow'd all their shine:
Were never four such lamps together mix'd,
Had not his clouded, with his brows' repine.

But hers, which thro' the crystal tears gave light,
Shone like the moon in water seen by night.

O! where am I? (quoth she) in earth, or heaven!
Or in the ocean drench'd! or in the fire!
What hour is this? or morn or weary even?
Do I delight to die, or life desire?

But now I liv'd, and life was death's annoy:
But now I dy'd, and death was lively joy.

O! thou didst kill me, kill me once again;
Thy eyes, shrewd tutor, that hard heart of thine,
Has taught them scornful tricks, and such disdain,
That they have murder'd this poor heart of mine:
And these mine eyes, true leaders to their queen,
But for thy piteous lips no more had seen.

Long may they kiss each other for this cure!
Oh, never let their crimson liveries wear!
And as they last, their verdure still endure,
To drive infection from the dangerous year?

That the star-gazers having writ on death
May say the plague is banish'd by thy breath.

Pure lips sweet seals! in my soft lips imprinted,
What bargains may I make still to be sealing?
To sell myself, I can be well contented;
So thou wilt buy and use good dealings;

Which purchase if thou make, for fear of slips,
Set thy seal manual on my wax-red lips.

A thousand kisses buys my heart from me,
And pay them at thy leisure one by one;
What is ten hundred kisses unto thee?
Are they not quickly told and quickly gone?
Say for non-payment that the debt should double,
Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?

Fair queen (quoth he) if any love you owe me,
Measure my strangeness with my unripe years,

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 poor birds, that helpless berries saw.
The warm effects which she in him finds missing,
She seeks to kindle with continual 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 me go;
You have no reason to withhold me so.

Thou had'st been gone (quoth she) sweet boy, ere this,
But 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 whetteth 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 when he strikes, his crooked tushes slay.

His brawny sides with hairy bristles arm'd,
Are better proof than thy spear's point can enter;
His short thick neck cannot be easily harm'd,
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.

Didst thou not mark my face! Was it not white ?
Saw'st thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye?
Grew I not faint? And fell I not downright?
Within my bosom, whereon thou dost lie,

My boding heart pants, beats, and takes no rest,
But like an earthquake shakes thee on my breast.

For where love reigns, disturbing jealousy
Doth call himself affection's sentinel;
Gives false alarms, suggesteth mutiny,
And in a peaceful hour doth cry, Kill, kill;
Distemp'ring gentle love with his desire,
As air and water doth abate the fire.

This sour informer, this hate-breeding spy,
This canker that eats up love's tender spring,
This carry-tale, dissentious jealousy,

That sometimes true news, sometimes false doth bring;
Knocks at my heart, and whispers in mine ear,
That if I lov'd thee, I thy death should fear.

And more than so, presenteth to mine eye
The picture of an angry chafing boar,

Under whose sharp fangs, on his back doth lie

An image like thyself, all stain'd with gore;

Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed,

Doth make 'em droop with grief, and hang the head.

What should I do, seeing thee so indeed ?
That trembling at th' imagination,

The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed,
And fear doth teach it divination.

I prophesy thy death, my living sorrow,
If thou encounter with the boar to-morrow.

But if thou needs will hunt, be rul'd by me,
Uncouple at the timorous flying hare;
Or at the fox, which lives by subtilty;
Or at the roe, which no encounter dare:

Pursue these fearful creatures o'er the downs,
And on thy well-breath'd horse keep with thy hounds.

And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare,
Mark the poor wretch, to overshut his troubles,
How he out-runs the wind, and with what care
He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles.
The many umsits through the which he goes,
Are like a labyrinth t' amaze his foes;

Sometimes he runs among the flock of sheep,
To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell;
And sometime, where earth-delving conies keep,
To stop the loud pursuers in their yell;

And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer:
Danger deviseth shifts, wit waits on fear.

For there his smell with others being mingled,
The hot-scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt,
Ceasing their clamorous cry, till they have singled,
With much ado, the cold fault cleanly out,

Then do they spend their mouths; Echo replies
As if another chace were in the skies.

By this poor Wat far off, upon a hill,
Stands on his hinder legs with list'ning ear,
To hearken if his foes pursue him still:
Anon their loud alarums he doth hear,

And now his griefs may be compared well
To one sore sick, that hears the passing bell.

Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch
Turn, and return, indenting with the way;
Each envious briar his weary legs doth scratch,
Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay.
For misery is trodden on by many;
And being low, never reliev'd by any.

Lie quietly, and hear a little more,

Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise:
To make thee hate the hunting of the boar,
Unlike myself, thou hear'st me moralize,
Applying this to that, and so to so,

For love can comment upon every woe.

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