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Song! made in lieu of many ornaments,
IN youth, before I waxed old,
The blynd boy, Venus baby,
S Diane hunted on a day,
She chaunst to come where Cupid lay,
One of his shafts she stole away,
And one of hers did close convay
Into the others stead:
With that Love wounded my Loves hart,
SAW, in secret to my Dame,
PON a day, as Love lay sweetly slumbring
A gentle Bee, with his loud trumpet murm'ring,
Whereof when he was wakened with the noyse,
"Whats this (quoth he) that gives so great a voyce, That wakens men withall?"
In angry wize he flies about,
And threatens all with corage stout.
To whom his mother closely smiling sayd,
"Twixt earnest and 'twixt game:
"See! thou thy selfe likewise art lyttle made,
And yet thou suffrest neyther Gods in sky,
But, when thou art disposed cruelly,
And in his hand with heedlesse hardiment,
But, when on it he hasty hand did lay,
The fly, that I so much did scorne,
Hath hurt me with his little horne."
Unto his mother straight he weeping came,
And of his griefe complayned:
Who could not chuse but laugh at his fond game,
Though sad to see him pained.
"Think now (quoth she) my son, how great the smart
Of those whom thou dost wound:
Full many thou hast pricked to the hart,
That pitty never found:
Therefore, henceforth some pitty take,
She wrapt him softly, all the while repenting
She drest his wound, and it embaulmed well
With salve of soveraigne might:
And then she bath'd him in a dainty well,
The well of deare delight.
Who would not oft be stung as this,
To be so bath'd in Venus blis?
The wanton boy was shortly wel recured
But he, soone after, fresh again enured
His former cruelty.
And since that time he wounded hath my selfe
With his sharpe dart of Love:
And now forgets the cruell carelesse elfe
His mothers heast to prove.
So now I languish, till he please
My pining anguish to appease.