The boyes short wish, her larger grant,
That doth his soule with blisse enchant;
Whereof impatient uttering all,
Inraged Jove contrives his thrall.
HY crafty arte," reply'd the smiling queene,
"T" Hath well my chiding and not rage prevented,
Yet might'st thou thinke that yet 'twas never seene
That angry rage and gentle love consented;
But if to me thy true love is presented,
What wages for thy service must I owe thee?
For by the selfe-same vow I here avow thee,
Whatever thou require I frankly will allow thee."
"Pardon," replies the boy," for so affecting
Beyond mortallity, and not discarding
Thy service, was much more than my expecting
But if thou (more thy bounty-hood regarding)
Wilt needs heap up reward upon rewarding,
Thy love I dare not aske, or mutual fixing,
One kisse is all my love and prides aspiring,
And after starve my heart, for my too much desiring."
"Fond Boy!" (sayd she)" too fond, that askt no more; Thy want by taking is no whit decreased,
And giving spends not our increasing store :”-
Thus with a kisse his lips she sweetly pressed;
Most blessed kisse! but hope more than most blessed. The boy did thinke heaven fell while thus he joy'd, And while joy he so greedily enjoy'd,
He felt not halfe his joy by being over-joyd.
"Why sighst? faire Boy!" (sayd she) " dost thou repent
Thy narrow wish in such straight bonds to stay?”
"Well may I sigh" (sayd he)" and well lament me,
That never such a debt may hope to pay."
"A kisse,” (sayd she)" a kisse will back repay."
"Wilt thou" (reply'd the boy, too much delighted,)
Content thee with such pay to be requited?"
She grants; and he his lips, heart, soule, to payment cited.
Look as a ward, long from his lands detain'd,
And subject to his guardians cruel lore,
Now spends the more, the more he was restrain’d;
So he; yet though in laying out his store
He doubly takes, yet finds himself grow poore;
With that he markes, and tels her out a score,
And doubles them, and trebles all before.
Fond boy! the more thou paist, thy debt still grows the
At length, whether these favours so had fir'd him
With kindly heate, inflaming his desiring,
Or whether those sweete kisses had inspir'd him,
He thinkes that something wants for his requiring,
And still aspires, yet knows not his aspiring;
But yet though that hee knoweth so she gave,
That he presents himselfe her bounden slave,
Still his more wishing face seem'd somewhat else to crave.
And, boldned with successe and many graces,
His hand, chain'd up in feare, he now releast,
And asking leave, courag'd with her imbraces,
Againe it prison'd in her tender breast:
Ah, blessed prison! prisners too much blest!
There with those sisters long time doth he play,
And now full boldly enters loves highway,
While downe the pleasant vale his creeping hand doth
She, not displeas'd with this his wanton play,
Hiding his blushing with a sugred kisse,
With such sweete heat his rudenesse doth allay,
That now he perfect knowes whatever blisse
Elder Love taught, and he before did misse;
That moult with joy, in such untri'd joyes trying,
He gladly dies; and, death new life applying,
Gladly againe he dyes, that oft he may be dying.
Long thus he liv'd, slumbring in sweete delight,
Free from sad care and fickle worlds annoy,
Bathing in liquid joyes his melted sprite;
And longer mought, but he (ah, foolish Boy!)
Too proud, and too impatient of his joy,
To woods, and heav'n, and earth, his blisse imparted, That Jove upon him downe his thunder darted, Blasting his splendent face, and all his beauty swarted.
Such be his chance that to his love doth wrong;
Unworthy he to save so worthy place,
That cannot hold his peace and blabbing tongue;
Light joyes float on his lips, but rightly grace
Sinckes deepe, and th' heart's low center doth imbrace.
Might I enjoy my love till I unfold it,
I'd lose all favours when I blabbing told it:
He is not fit for love that is not fit to hold it.
C. Whittingham, Tooks Court,
Chancery Lane.
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