Imatges de pàgina
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The boar! (quoth fhe) whereat a fudden pale,
Like lawn being spread upon the blushing rofe,
Ufurps her cheeks; she trembles at his tale,
And on his neck her yoking arms she throws:
She finketh down, still hanging on his neck,
He on her belly falls, fhe on her back.

Now is the in the very lifts of love,

Her champion mounted for the hot encounter:
All is imaginary she doth prove,

He will not manage her, although he mount her;
That worse than Tantalus' is her annoy,

To clip Elyfium, and to lack her joy.

Even as poor birds, deceiv'd with painted grapes,
Do furfeit by the eye, and pine the maw,
Even fo fhe languisheth in her mishaps,
As those poor birds that helpless berries saw :
The warm effects which the in him finds miffing,
She feeks to kindle with continual kiffing.

But all in vain; good queen, it will not be :
She hath affay'd as much as may be prov'd;
Her pleading hath deserv'd a greater fee;
She's Love, fhe 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 fo.

Thou hadst been gone, quoth she, sweet boy, ere this,
But that thou told'ft me, thou would'ft hunt the boar.
O be advis'd; thou know'ft not what it is

With javelin's point a churlish swine to gore,
Whose tushes never-fheath'd he whetteth still,
Like to a mortal butcher, bent to kill.

On his bow-back he hath a battle fet

Of briftly pikes, that ever threat his foes;

His eyes, like glow-worms shine when he doth fret ;
His fnout digs fepulchres where'er he goes;

Being mov'd, he ftrikes what e'er is in his way,
And whom he strikes, his crooked tushes flay.

His brawny fides, with hairy bristles armed,
Are better proof than thy fpear's point can enter ;
His fhort 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 efteems that face of thine,
To which Love's eye pays tributary gazes;
Nor thy foft hands, fweet lips, and crystal eyne,
Whose full perfection all the world amazes;

But having thee at vantage (wond'rous dread!)
Would root these beauties as he roots the mead.

O! let him keep his loathfome cabin still;
Beauty hath nought to do with fuch 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 diffemble,
I fear'd thy fortune, and my joints did tremble.

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

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

For where love reigns, difturbing jealousy
Doth call himself affection's centinel;
Gives false alarms, fuggefteth mutiny,
And in a peaceful hour doth cry, kill, kill;
Diftemp'ring gentle love with his defire,
As air and water doth abate the fire.

This four informer, this bate-breeding spy,
This canker that eats up love's tender fpring,
This carry-tale, diffenfious jealousy,

That fometimes true news, fometimes falfe doth bring,
Knocks at my heart, and whispers in mine ear,
That if I love 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 thyfelf, all ftain'd with gore;
Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed,

Doth make them droop with grief, and hang the head.

What should I do, seeing thee fo indeed,

That trembling at the imagination,

The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed?

And fear doth teach it divination :

I prophefy thy death, my living forrow,

If thou encounter with the boar to-morrow.

But if thou needs wilt hunt, be rul'd by me;
Uncouple at the timorous flying hare,

Or at the fox, which lives by fubtilty,

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 haft on foot the purblind hare, Mark the poor wretch to overfhut his troubles, How he out-runs the wind, and with what care He cranks and croffes, with a thousand doubles: The many mufits through the which he goes, Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.

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

And fometime forteth with a herd of deer;
Danger deviseth fhifts; wit waits on fear:

For there his fmell with others being mingled, The hot fcent-fnuffing hounds are driven to doubt, Ceafing their clamorous cry till they have fingled With much ado the cold fault cleanly out;

Then do they spend their mouths: Echo replies, As if another chafe were in the skies.

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

And now his grief may be compared well
To one fore-fick, that hears the paffing bell.

Then fhalt thou fee the dew-bedabbled wretch
Turn, and return, indenting with the way;
Each envious briar his weary legs doth fcratch,
Each fhadow makes him ftop, each murmur stay;
For mifery 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 fhalt not rise :
To make thee hate the hunting of the boar,
Unlike thyself, thou hear'st me moralize,
Applying this to that, and so to so;

For love can comment upon every woe.

Where did I leave?—No matter where, quoth he; Leave me, and then the story aptly ends:

The night is spent. Why, what of that, quoth fhe,
I am, quoth he, expected of my friends;

And now 'tis dark, and going I shall fall.—
In night, quoth fhe, defire fees beft of all.

But if thou fall, O then imagine this,
The earth in love with thee thy footing trips,
And all is but to rob thee of a kifs.

Rich preys make rich men thieves; fo do thy lips
Make modeft Dian cloudy and forlorn,

Left she should steal a kiss, and die forfworn.

Now, of this dark night I perceive the reason:
Cynthia for shame obfcures her filver shine,
Till forging nature be condemn'd of treason,
For ftealing moulds from heaven that were divine,
Wherein the fram'd thee in high heaven's defpite,
To fhame the fun by day, and her by night.

And therefore hath she brib'd the Deftinies,
To cross the curious workmanship of nature,
To mingle beauty with infirmities,

And pure perfection with impure defeature;
Making it fubject to the tyranny

Of fad mifchances and much mifery;

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