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

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But I shall all your Phrygian wealth possessz And more than your epiftle can express : 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 loss of my chief friends? Whofe friendship, or whose aid shall I imploy To succour me, when I am wrong'd in Troy? Or whether can I, having thus misdone, Unto my father, or my brothers run? As much as you to me, false Jafon swore Unto Medea, yet from Æfon's door He after did exile her. Now, poor heart, Where is thy father that should take thy part? Old Ætes or Calciope? thou took'st No aid from them, whom thou before forfook'ft. Or say thou didft (alas ! they cannot hear Thy fad complaints) yet I no such thing fear ; No more Medea did : good hopes engage Themselves so 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 sea, and a calm gale from the south. Besides, the brand your mother dreamt the bare, The night before your birth, breeds me fresh care. It prophefy'd, ere many years expire, Infamed Troy must burn with Greekish fire. As Venus favours you, because she gain'd A doubtful prize by you; yet the disdain'd

And vanquish'd goddesses, disgrac'd so late,
May bear you hard; I therefore fear their hate.
Nor make no question, but if I confort you,
And for a ravilher our Greece report you ;
War will be wag'd with Troy, and you shall rue
The sword (alas !) your conquest shall pursue.
When Hypodamia, at her bridal feast,
Was rudely ravish'd by her Centaur guest;
Because the salvages the bride durft leize,
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 smother?
Or the two famous twins, each lov'd of other

So where your valour and rare deeds you boast, And warlike fpirits in which you triumph'd most; By which you have attain’d 'mongst soldiers grace, None will believe you, that but fees your face. Your feature, and fair shape, is fitter far For amorous courtships, than remorsless war. Let rough-hew'd soldiers warlike dangers prove, 'Tis pity Paris should do ought save love. Hector (whom you so praise) for you may fight; I'll find you war to skirmish every night, Which shall become you better.

Were I wise, And bold withal, I might obtain the prize : In such sweet single combats, hand to hand, 'Gainst which no woman that is wise will stand. My champion I'll encounter breast to breast, Tho' I were fure to fall, and be o'erprest.

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

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I know the meaning, durst 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 harvest's in the blade,
My tired pen shall here its labour end,
A guilty sense in thievish lines I send.
Speak next when your occasion best persuades,
By Clyrene and Æthra my two maids.

The passionate 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 see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, by whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
There will I make thee beds of roses,
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 pulls
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps, and amber studs.
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Then live with me, and be my lovę.
The shepherd swains shall dance and fing,
For thy delight each May morning,

If these 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 shepherd's tongue; These pretty pleasures 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 spring, but forrow's fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy bed of roses, Thy cap, thy girdle, and thy posies; Some break, fome wither, some forgotten, In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds Thy coral clasps, and ainber studs ; All these in me no means can move To come to thee, and be thy love. But could youth last, and love ftill breed, Had joys no date and age no need ; Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee, and be thy love.

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Another of the same Nature.

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

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In plains and groves, on hills and dales,
Where fragrant air breathes sweetest gales.
There shall you have the beauteous pine,
The cedar, and the spreading vine,
And all the woods to be a skreen,
Left Phæbus kiss my summer's queen.
The seat of your disport shall be,
Over some river, in a tree;
Where silver sands and pebbles fing
Eternal ditties to the spring.
There you shall see the nymphs at play,
And how the fatyrs spend the day:
The fishes gliding on the sands,
Offering their bellies to your hands;
The birds, with heavenly-tuned throats,
Poffefs woods echoes with sweet notes ;
Which to your senses will impart
A mufick to inflame the heart.
Upon the bare and leafless oak,
The ring-doves wooings will provoke
A colder blood than you possess,
To play with me, and do no less.
In bowers of laurel trimly dight,
We will outwear the silent night,
While Flora busy is to spread
Her richest treasure on our bed.
The glow-worms shall on you attend,
And all their sparkling lights fhall spendį
All to adorn and beautify
Your lodging with most majesty :
Then in my arms will I inclose
Lilies fair mixture with the rose;
Whose nice perfections in love's play,
Shall tune me to the highest key,

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