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INCE I did leave the presence of my love,
So sorrowe still doth seeme too long to last,
INCE I have lackt the comfort of that light,
I wander as in darknesse of the night,
But, with such brightnesse whylest I fill my mind,
YKE as the Culver on the bared bough
Mourne to my selfe the absence of my love,
Dark is my day whyles her fayre light I mis,
IN youth before I waxed old,
But, when he saw me stung and cry,
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
And said to her; "All hayle, my mother!"
But when he saw me laugh, for shame
PON a day, as Love lay sweetly slumbring
A gentle Bee, with his loud trumpet murm-
About him flew by hap:
Whereof when he was wakened with the noyse,
And saw the beast so small;
"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,
Theyr sleepe thou doost molest.
Nathlesse, the cruell boy, not so content,
And in his hand, with heedlesse hardiment,
Him caught for to subdue.
But when on it he hasty hand did lay,
The Bee him stung therefore:
"Now out alas, (he cryde) and welaway! I wounded am full sore:
The fly that I so much did scorne,
Hath hurt me with his little horne."
Unto his mother straight he weeping came,
Who could not chose but laugh at his fond game, Though sad to see him pained.
"Think now, (quoth she) my sonne, how great the
Of those whom thou dost wound:
Full many thou hast pricked to the hart,
That pitty never found.
Therefore, henceforth some pitty take,
When thou doest spoyle of Lovers make."
She tooke him streight full pitiously lamenting,
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,
The wanton boy was shortly wel recured
But he, soone after, fresh again enured
His former cruelty:
And since that time he wounded hath
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.