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It is a toothache, or like pain ;
M. Yet, shepherd, what is love, I pray?
A pretty kind of sporting fray,
· M. And what is love, good shepherd, shew? F. A thing that creeps, it cannot go;
A prize that passeth to and fro;
As at noon Dulcina rested
In her sweet and shady bower,
But from her look
So deep, that for a farther boon
The nymph he prays;
But in vain she did conjure him
To depart her presence so, Having a thousand tongues t'allure him, And but one to bid him go.
When lips invite,
And eyes delight,
What boots to say, 6. Forego me now, come to me soon!"
He demands, what time for pleasure
Can there be more fit than now? She says, night gives love that leisure Which the day doth not allow.
He says, the sight
Improves delight; Which she denies ; “ Night's murky noon
In Venus' plays
Makes bold,” she says,
But what promise, or profession,
From his hands could purchase scope ? Who would sell the sweet possession
Of such beauty for a hope?
Or for the sight
Of lingering night, Forego the present joys of noon?
Tho' ne'er so fair
Her speeches were, « Forego me now, come to me soon!”
How at last agreed these lovers ?
She was fair, and he was young: The tongue may tell what th’
discovers; Joys unseen are never sung.
Did she consent,
Or he relent?
Left he her maid,
Or not? she said, “ Forego me now, come to me soon!”
HIS LOVE ADMITS NO RIVAL.
SHALL I, like a hermit, dwell,
Were her tresses angel gold,
Were her band as rich a prize
No; she must be perfect snow,
Who in his day obtained the epithet of the silvertongued, was a merchant adventurer, and died abroad at Middleburg, in 1618. He was a candidate, in the year 1597, for the office of secretary to a trading company at Stade ; on which occasion the Earl of Essex seems to have taken a friendly interest in his fortunes. Though esteemed by the court of England (on one occasion he signs himself the pensioner of Prince Henry), he is said to have been driven from home by the enmity which his satires excited. This seems very extraordinary, as there is nothing in his vague and dull declamations against vice, that needed to have ruffled the most thinskinned enemies—so that his travels were probably made more from the hope of gain than the fear of persecution. He was an eminent linguist, and writes his dedications in several languages, but in his own he often fathoms the bathos, and brings up such lines as these to king James. So much, O king, thy sacred worth presume I on, James, the just heir of England's lawful union. His works are chiefly translations, including that of the Divine Weeks and Works of Du Bartas. His claim to the poem of the Soul's Errand, as has been already mentioned, is to be entirely set aside.