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But ere the leaft of all these ills betide me,
I wish the earth may in her bosom hide me.

But I fhall all your Phrygian wealth poffefs,
And more than your epiftle can exprefs:
Gifts, woven gold, imbroidery, rich attire,
Purple and plate, or what I can defire.
Yet give me leave, think you all this extends
To countervail the lofs of my chief friends?
Whose friendship, or whose aid fhall I imploy
To fuccour me, when I am wrong'd in Troy?
Or whether can I, having thus mifdone,
Unto my father, or my brothers run?
As much as you to me, falfe Jafon swore
Unto Medea, yet from Efon's door
He after did exile her. Now, poor heart,
Where is thy father that should take thy part ?
Old Etes or Calciope? thou took'st

No aid from them, whom thou before forfook'ft.
Or fay thou didft (alas! they cannot hear
Thy fad complaints) yet I no fuch thing fear;
No more Medea did: good hopes engage
Themselves fo far, they fail in their prefage.
You see the ships that in the main are tofs'd,
And many times by tempefts wreck'd and loft,
Had, at their launching from the haven's mouth,
A smooth fea, and a calm gale from the south.
Befides, the brand your mother dreamt the bare,
The night before your birth, breeds me fresh care.
It prophefy'd, ere many years expire,
Inflamed Troy muft burn with Greekish fire.
As Venus favours you, because fhe gain'd
A doubtful prize by you; yet the disdain'd

And vanquifh'd goddeffes, difgrac'd fo late,
May bear you hard; I therefore fear their hate.
Nor make no queftion, but if I confort you,
And for a ravisher our Greece report you;
War will be wag'd with Troy, and you fhall rue
The fword (alas!) your conqueft fhall pursue.
When Hypodamia, at her bridal feast,
Was rudely ravifh'd by her Centaur guest;
Because the falvages the bride durft seize,
War grew betwixt them and the Lapythes.
Or think you Menelaus hath no spleen?
Or that he hath not power to avenge his teen?
Or that old Tyndarus this wrong can fmother?
Or the two famous twins, each lov'd of other?

So where your valour and rare deeds you boaft, And warlike fpirits in which you triumph'd moft; By which you have attain'd 'mongft foldiers grace, None will believe you, that but fees your face. Your feature, and fair fhape, is fitter far For amorous courtships, than remorfless war. Let rough-hew'd foldiers warlike dangers prove, 'Tis pity Paris fhould do ought save love. Hector (whom you so praise) for you may fight; I'll find you war to fkirmish every night, Which fhall become you better. Were I wife, And bold withal, I might obtain the prize: In fuch fweet fingle combats, hand to hand, 'Gainft which no woman that is wife will stand. My champion I'll encounter breaft to breast, Tho' I were fure to fall, and be o'erpreft.

If that you private conference intreat me, I apprehend you, and you cannot cheat me :

I know the meaning, durft I yield thereto,
Of what you would confer, what you would do.
You are too forward, you too far would wade;
But yet (God knows) your harveft's in the blade.
My tired pen fhall here its labour end,

A guilty fenfe in thievifh lines I fend.
Speak next when your occafion beft perfuades,
By Clymene and Ethra my two maids.

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The paffionate Shepherd to his Love.

Live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasure prove,
That hills and valleys, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.
There will we fit upon the rocks,
And fee the fhepherds feed their flocks,
By fhallow rivers, by whofe falls
Melodious birds fing madrigals.
There will I make thee beds of rofes,
With a thousand fragrant pofies;
A cap of flowers, and a girdle
Imbroider'd all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined flippers for the cold,
With buckles of the pureft gold;
A belt of ftraw and ivy buds,
With coral clafps, and amber ftuds.
And if thefe pleasures may thee move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
The fhepherd fwains fhall dance and fing,
For thy delight each May morning,

If thefe delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd.

If that the world and love were young,
And truth in every fhepherd's tongue;
These pretty pleafures might me move
To live with thee, and be thy love.
Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb,

And all complain of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yield:
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's fpring, but forrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy fhoes, thy bed of roses,
Thy cap, thy girdle, and thy pofies;
Some break, fome wither, fome forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reafon rotten.
Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds;
Thy coral clafps, and amber ftuds ;
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee, and be thy love.
But could youth laft, and love still breed,
Had joys no date and age no need;
Then thefe delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love.

Another of the fame Nature.

Come live with me, and be my dear,
And we will revel all the year

In plains and groves, on hills and dales,
Where fragrant air breathes sweetest gales.
There fhall you have the beauteous pine,
The cedar, and the fpreading vine,
And all the woods to be a fkreen,
Left Phoebus kifs my fummer's queen.
The feat of your difport fhall be,
Over fome river, in a tree;
Where filver fands and pebbles fing
Eternal ditties to the fpring.

There you fhall fee the nymphs at play,
And how the fatyrs spend the day :
The fifhes gliding on the fands,
Offering their bellies to your hands;
The birds, with heavenly-tuned throats,
Poffefs woods echoes with fweet notes;
Which to your fenfes will impart
A mufick to inflame the heart.
Upon the bare and leaflefs oak,
The ring-doves wooings will provoke
A colder blood than you poffefs,
To play with me, and do no lefs.
In bowers of laurel trimly dight,
We will outwear the filent night,
While Flora busy is to spread
Her richeft treasure on our bed.
The glow-worms fhall on you attend,
And all their sparkling lights fhall spend
All to adorn and beautify

Your lodging with most majefty:
Then in my arms will I inclofe
Lilies fair mixture with the rofe;
Whose nice perfections in love's play,
Shall tune me to the highest key.

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