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And (let me die) but every thing confider,
Each thing perfuades us we fhall lie together.
Nothing we fee molefts us, nought we hear,
And yet my forward will is flack thro' fear.
I would to God, that what you ill perfuade,
You could as well compel; fo I were made
Unwilling willing, pleasingly abus'd,
So my fimplicity might be excus'd.
Injury's force is oft-times wond'rous pleafing,
To fuch as fuffer ease in their difeafing;
If what I will, you 'gainft my will should do,
I with fuch force could be well pleafed too.
But whilft our love is young and in the bud,
Suffer his infant vigour be withftood:
A flame new kindled is as eafily quench'd,
And fudden sparks in little drops are drench'd.
A traveller's love is, like himself, unftay'd,
And wanders where he walks; it is not laid
On any firmer ground; for when we alone
Think him to us, the wind blows fair, he's gone.
Witnefs Hypfipile, alike betray'd;
Witness with her the bright Mynoyan maid :
Nay then yourself, as you yourself have spoken,
To fair Oenone have your promise broken.
Since I beheld your face firft, my defire
Hath been, of Trojan Paris to enquire.
I know you now in every true respect,
I'll grant you thus much then, fay you affect
Me (whom you term your own.) I'll go thus far;
Do not the Phrygian mariners prepare
Their fails and oars, ev'n now whilft we recite.
Exchange of words about the wifhed night?
Say that even now you were prepar'd to climb
My long-wifh'd bed, just at th' appointed time
The wind fhould alter, and blow fair for Troy,
You must break off, in midst of all your joy,
And leave me in the infancy of pleasure,
Amid my riches, I fhall lofe my treasure.
You will forfake the fweets my bed affords,
T'exchange for cabins, hatches and pitch'd boards.
Then what a fickle courtship you commence,
When, with the first wind, all your love blows
But fhall I follow you when you are gone,
And be the grandchild to Laomedon!
And Ilium fee, whofe beauty you proclaim?
I do not fo despise the bruit of fame,
That fhe to whom I am indebt such thanks,
Should fill the earth with fuch adulterate pranks.
What will Achaia? What will Sparta say?
What will your Troy report, and Afia?
What my old Priam, or his reverend queen?
What may your fifters, having Helen feen,
Or your Dardanian brothers deem of me?
Will they not blame my loose inchastity?
Nay, how can you yourself faithful deem me,
And not amongst the loofeft dames efteem me?
No ftranger shall your Afian ports come near,
But he fhall fill your guilty foul with fear.
How often, angry at fome fmall offence,
Will you thus fay; adult'refs, get thee hence?
Forgetting you yourself have been the chief
In my tranfgreffion, tho' not in my grief.
Confider what it is, forgetful lover,
To be fin's author, and fin's fharp reprover.
But ere the leaft of all these ills betide me,
I wish the earth may in her bofom 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 misdone,
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 fee the fhips 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 fmooth fea, and a calm gale from the fouth.
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 must burn with Greekish fire.
As Venus favours you, because fhe gain'd
A doubtful prize by you; yet the difdain'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 shall 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 feize,
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 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, 'Gainst which no woman that is wife will ftand. My champion I'll encounter breast 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.
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 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 fineft 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 these 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,