Vilia miretur vulgus, mihi flavus Apollo
Pocula Caftalia plena miniftrat aqua.
And yet not cloy thy lips with loath'd fatiety,
But rather famish them amid their plenty,
Making them red and pale with fresh variety;
Ten kiffes fhort as one, one long as twenty:
A fummer's day will seem an hour but short,
Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.
With this, the feizeth on his fweating palm,
The precedent of pith and livelihood,
And, trembling in her paffion, calls it balm,
Earth's fovereign falve to do a goddess good:
Being fo enrag'd, defire doth lend her force,
Couragiously to pluck him from his horse.
Over one arm the lufty courfer's rein,
Under the other was the tender boy,
Who blush'd and pouted in a dull disdain,
With leaden appetite, unapt to toy;
She, red and hot, as coals of glowing fire,
He red for shame, but frosty in defire.
The ftudded bridle on a ragged bough
Nimbly she faftens (O how quick is love!)
The steed is ftalled up, and even now
To tie the rider fhe begins to prove :
Backward she push'd him, as she would be thrust,
And govern'd him in ftrength, though not in luft.
So foon was she along, as he was down,
Each leaning on their elbows and their hips:
Now doth she ftroke his cheek, now doth he frown,
And 'gins to chide, but foon she stops his lips;
And kiffing speaks, with luftful language broken,'
"If thou wilt chide, thy lips fhall never open."
He burns with bashful shame; fhe with her tears
Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks;
Then with her windy fighs, and golden hairs,
To fan and blow them dry again she seeks:
He says, she is immodeft, blames her 'mifs;
What follows more, fhe fmothers with a kifs.
Even as an empty eagle, fharp by fast,
Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh, and bone,
Shaking her wings, devouring all in hafte,
Till either gorge be stuff'd, or prey be gone;
Even fo fhe kifs'd his brow, his cheek, his chin,
And where she ends, fhe doth anew begin.
Forc'd to content, but never to obey,
Panting he lies, and breathing in her face;
She feedeth on the fteam, as on a prey,
And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace,
Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers,
So they were dew'd with such distilling showers.
Look how a bird lies tangled in a net,
So faften'd in her arms Adonis lies;
Pure shame and aw'd refistance made him fret,
Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes:
Rain added to a river that is rank,
Perforce will force it overflow the bank.
Still fhe entreats, and prettily entreats,
For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale;
Still is he fullen, ftill he low'rs and frets,
'Twixt crimson shame and anger, ashy-pale;
Being red, the loves him beft; and being white,
Her best is better'd with a more delight.
Look how he can, fhe cannot choose but love;
And by her fair immortal hand she swears
From his foft bofom never to remove,
Till he take truce with her contending tears,
Which long have rain'd, making her cheeks all wet; And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt.
Upon this promise did he raise his chin,
Like a di-dapper peering through a wave,
Who being look'd on, ducks as quickly in;
So offers he to give what she did crave;
But when her lips were ready for his pay,
He winks, and turns his lips another way.
Never did paffenger in fummer's heat
More thirst for drink, than fhe for this good turn.
Her help the fees, but help she cannot get ;
She bathes in water, yet in fire must burn:
"Oh pity, 'gan fhe cry, flint-hearted boy;
'Tis but a kifs I beg; why art thou coy?
I have been woo'd, as I entreat thee now,
Even by the ftern and direful god of war,
Whose finewy neck in battle ne'er did bow,
Who conquers where he comes, in every jar;
Yet hath he been my captive and my flave,
And begg'd for that which thou unask'd shalt have.
Over my altars hath he hung his lance,
His batter'd shield, his uncontrolled creft,
And for my fake hath learn'd to fport and dance,
To coy, to wanton, dally, fmile, and jeft;
Scorning his churlish drum, and enfign red,
Making my arms his field, his tent my bed.
Thus him that over-rul'd, I overfway'd,
Leading him prisoner in a red-rofe chain:
Strong-temper'd steel his ftronger strength obey'd,
Yet was he fervile to my coy difdain.
O be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,
For maft'ring her that foil'd the god of fight.
Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine
(Though mine be not fo fair, yet are they red),
The kifs fhall be thine own as well as mine:-
What fee'st thou in the ground? hold up thy head;
Look in mine eye-balls where thy beauty lies:
Then why not lips on lips, fince eyes on eyes?
Art thou asham'd to kifs? then wink again,
And I will wink, fo fhall the day seem night;
Love keeps his revels where there be but twain,
Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight :
These blue-vein'd violets whereon we lean,
Never can blab, nor know they what we mean.
The tender fpring upon thy tempting lip
Shows thee unripe; yet may'ft thou well be tasted
Make use of time, let not advantage flip;
Beauty within itself should not be wasted:
Fair flowers that are not gather'd in their prime,
Rot and confume themfelves in little time.
Were I hard-favour'd, foul, or wrinkled-old,
Ill-natur'd, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice,
O'erworn, despised, rheumatick and cold,
Thick-fighted, barren, lean, and lacking juice,
Then might'ft thou pause, for then I were not for thee;
But having no defects, why doft abhor me?
|