Bid me difcourfe, I will inchant thine Ear,
Or, like a Fairy, trip upon the Green;
Or, like a Nymph, with long difhevel'd Hair,
Dance on the Sands, and yet no footing feen.
Love is a Spirit all compact of Fire,
Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire.
Witness this Primrose Bank, whereon I lie,
The forceless Flowers, like fturdy Trees, fupport me :
Two ftrengthlefs Doves will draw me thro the Sky
From Morn till Night, even where I lift to fport me.
Is Love fo light, fweet Boy, and may it be,
That thou fhouldft think it heavy unto thee?
Is thine own Heart to thine own Face affected?
Can thy right Hand feize Love upon thy left?
Then wooe thy felf, be of thy felf rejected,
Steal thine own Freedom, and complain of Theft.
Narciffus fo himself, himself forfook,
And dy'd to kiss his Shadow in the Brook.
Torches are made to light, Jewels to wear,
Dainties to taste, fresh Beauty for the ufe,
Herbs for their Smell, and fappy Plants to bear;
Things growing to themselves are Growth's Abufe:
Seeds fpring from Seeds, and Beauty breedeth Beauty;;
Thou wert begot, to get it is thy Duty.
Upon the Earth's Increase why fhouldft thou feed,
Unless the Earth with thy Increase be fed?
By Law of Nature thou art bound to breed,
That thine may live, when thou thy felf art dead:
And fo in fpight of Death, thou doft furvive,
In that thy Likeness ftill is left alive..
By this the Love-fick Queen began to fweat,
For, where they lay, the Shadow had forfook them;
And Titan, tired in the Mid-day Heat,
With burning Eye did hotly overlook them:
Wishing Adonis had his Team to guide,
So he were like him, and by Venus Side.
And now Adonis with a lazy Spright,
And with a heavy, dark, difliking Eye,
His low'ring Brows o'erwhelming his fair Sight,
Like mifty Vapours, when they blot the Sky;
Souring his Cheeks, cries, Fie, no more of Love,
The Sun doth burn my Face, I must remove.
Ah me! (quoth Venus) young, and fo unkind!
What bare Excufes mak'ft thou to be gone?
I'll figh Celestial Breath, whofe gentle Wind
Shall cool the Heat of this defcending Sun.
I'll make a Shadow for thee of my Hairs,
If they burn too, I'll quench them with my Tears.
The Sun that fhines from Heaven fhines but warm,
And, loe, I lie between the Sun and thee!
The Heat I have from thence doth little harm,
Thine Eye darts forth the Fire that burneth me.
And, were I not immortal, Life were done,
Between this Heav'nly, and this Earthly Sun.
Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as Steel?
Nay more than Flint, for Stone at Rain relenteth :
Art thou a Woman's Son, and canft not feel
What 'tis to love, how want of Love tormenteth?
Oh! had thy Mother born fo bad a Mind,
She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind.
What am I, that thou fhouldft contemn me this?
Or what great Danger dwells upon my Suit?
What were thy Lips the worfe for one poor Kifs!
Speak fair: But fpeak fair Words, or else be mute.
Give me one Kiss, I'll give it thee again,
And one for Int'reft, if thou wilt have twain.
Fie, lifeless Picture, cold and fenfeless Stone,
Well-painted Idol, Image dull and dead;
Statue contenting but the Eye alone,
Thing like a Man, but of no Woman bred.
Thou art no Man, tho of a Man's Complection,
For Men will kifs even by their own Direction.
This faid, Impatience choaks her pleading Tongue,
And fwelling Paffion doth provoke a Pause;
Red Cheeks and fiery Eyes blaze forth her Wrong,
Being Judge in Love, fhe cannot right her Caufe.
And now the weeps, and now fhe fain would fpeak,
And now her Sobs do her Intendments break.
Sometimes the fhakes her Head, and then his Hand:
Now gazeth fhe on him, now on the Ground;
Sometimes her Arms infold him like a Band;
She would, he will not in her Arms be bound ;
And when from thence he ftruggles to be gone,
She locks her Lilly Fingers one in one.
Fondling, faith fhe, fince I have hemm'd thee here,
Within the Circuit of this Ivory Pale,
I'll be the Park, and thou shalt be my Deer,
Feed where thou wilt, on Mountain, or in Dale.
Graze on my Lips; and if thofe Hills be dry,
Stray lower, where the pleasant Fountains lie.
Within this Limit is Relief enough,
Sweet bottom Grafs, and high delightful Plain,
Round rifing Hillocks, Brakes obfcure and rough,
To fhelter thee from Tempeft and from Rain.
Then be my Deer, fince I am such a Park,
No Dog fhall rouze thee, tho a thousand bark.
At this Adonis fmiles, as in Difdain,
That in each Cheek appears a pretty Dimple;
Love made those Hollows, if himfelf were flain,
He might be buried in a Tomb fo fimple :
Foreknowing well if there he came to lie,
Why there Love liv'd, and there he cou'd not die.
These loving Caves, thefe round enchanted Pite,
Open'd their Mouths to fwallow Venus liking:
Being mad before, how doth fhe now for Wits?
Struck dead at firft, what needs a fecond striking?
Poor Queen of Love, in thine own Law forlorn,
To love a Cheek, that fmiles at thee with Scorn.
Now which Way fhall the turn? What fhall fhe fay?
Her Words are done, her Woes the more increasing:
The Time is spent, her Object will away,
And from her twining Arms doth urge releafing.
Pity fhe cries, fome Favour, fome Remorfe!
Away he fprings, and hafteth to his Horse.
But, lo! from forth a Copp's that neighbours by,
A breeding Jennet, lufty, young, and proud,
Adonis' trampling Courfer doth espy,
And forth the rushes, fnorts, and neighs aloud:
The ftrong-neck'd Steed, being ty'd unto a Tree,
Breaketh his Rein, and to her ftrait goes he.
Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,
And now his woven Girts he breaks afunder;
The bearing Earth with his hard Hoof he wounds,
Whofe hollow Womb refounds like Heaven's Thunder:
The Iron Bit he crushes 'tween his Teeth,
Controlling what he was controlled with.
His Ears up-prick'd, his braided hanging Mane
Upon his compafs'd Creft now ftands an end:
His Noftrils drink the Air, and forth again,
As from a Furnace, Vapours doth he lend:
His Eye, which glifters fcornfully like Fire,
Shews his hot Courage, and his high Defire.
Sometimes he trots, as if he told the Steps,
With gentle Majefty, and modest Pride;
Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps,
As who fhould fay, lo! thus my Strength is try'd:
And thus I do to captivate the Eye
Of the fair Breeder, that is ftanding by.
What recketh he his Rider's angry Stir,
His flatt'ring Holla, or his Stand, I say?
What cares he now for Curb, or pricking Spur?
For rich Caparisons, or Trappings gay?
He fees his Love, and nothing else he fees,
For nothing else with his proud Sight agrees.
Look when a Painter wou'd furpass the Life,
In limning out a well-proportion'd Steed,
His Art, with Nature's Workmanship at Strife,
As if the Dead the Living fhould exceed:
So did his Horfe excell a common one,
In Shape, in Courage, Colour, Pace, and Bone.
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