She marking them, begins a waiting Note,
And fings extemp'rally a woful Ditty:
How Love makes young Men thrall, and old Men dote;
How Love is wife in Folly, foolish witty:
Her heavy Anthem ftill concludes in Woe!
And ftill the Choir of Eccho's anfwers fo.
Her Song was tedious, and out-wore the Night,
For Lovers Hours are long, tho feeming fhort:
If pleas'd themselves, others they think delight
In fuch-like Circumftance, with fuch-like Sport.
Their copious Stories, oftentimes begun,
End without Audience, and are never done.
For who hath fhe to spend the Night withal,
But idle Sounds, resembling Parafites?
Like fhrill-tongu'd Tapfters anfwering every Call,
Soothing the Humour of fantastic Wits.
She faid, 'tis fo: They answer all, 'tis fo,
And would fay after her, if fhe faid no.
Loe! here the gentle Lark, weary of Reft,
From his moift Cabinet mounts up on high,
And wakes the Morning, from whofe Silver Breaft
The Sun arifeth in his Majefty:
Who doth the World fo glorioufly behold,
The Cedar-Tops and Hills feem burnish'd Gold.
Venus falutes him with this fair Good-morrow :
O! thou clear God, and Patron of all Light!
From whom each Lamp, and thining Star doth borrow
The beauteous Influence, that makes him bright:
There lives a Son, that fuck'd an earthly Mother,
May lend thee Light, as thou doft lend to other.
This faid, fhe hafteth to a Myrtle Grove,
Mufing the Morning is fo much o'er-worn;
And yet the hears no Tidings of her Love:
She hearkens for his Hounds, and for his Horn.
Anon she hears them chaunt it luftily,
And all in hafte fhe coafteth to the Cry.
And as he runs, the Bufhes in the way,
Some catch her by the Neck, fome kifs her Face,
Some twine about her Thigh to make her stay;
She wildly breaketh from their ftrict Embrace,
Like a milch Doe, whofe fwelling Dugs do ake,
Hafting to feed her Fawn, hid in fome Brake.
By this, fhe hears the Hounds are at a Bay,
Whereat she starts, like one that fpies an Adder,
Wreath'd up in fatal Folds, juft in his way,
The Fear whereof doth make him shake and fhudder:
E'en fo the timorous Yelping of the Hounds,
Appalls her Senfes, and her Sp'rits confounds.
For now fhe knows it is no gentle Chase,
But the blunt Boar, rough Bear, or Lion proud;
Because the Cry remaineth in one Place,
Where fearfully the Dogs exclaim aloud:
Finding their Enemy to be fo curft,
They all strain Curt'fy, who fhall cope him firft.
This difmal Cry rings fadly in her Ear,
Thro which it enters, to furprize her Heart;
Who overcome by Doubt, and bloodlefs Fear,
With cold pale Weaknefs numbs each feeling Part:
Like Soldiers, when their Captain once doth yield,
They bafely fly, and dare not stay the Field.
Thus ftands fhe in a trembling Extafy,
Till cheering up her Senfes fore dismaid,
She tells them 'tis a cauflefs Fantasy,
And childish Error, that they are afraid;
Bids them leave quaking, wills them fear no more:
And with that Word, the fpy'd the hunted Boar.
Whofe frothy Mouth bepainted all with red,
Like Milk and Blood being mingled both together,
A fecond Fear thro all her Sinews fpread,
Which madly hurries her she knows not whither.
This way the runs, and now fhe will no further,
But back retires, to rate the Boar for Murder.
A thousand Spleens bear her a thousand ways,
She treads the Paths that she untreads again;
Her more than Hafte is marred with Delays:
Like the Proceedings of a drunken Brain,
Full of Refpect, yet not at all refpecting;
In hand with all things, nought at all effecting.
Here kennel'd in a Brake fhe finds an Hound,
And asks the weary Caitiff for his Master;
And there another licking of his Wound,
'Gainst venom'd Sores the only fovereign Plaister:
And here fhe meets another fadly fcolding,
To whom the speaks, and he replies with howling.
When he had ceas'd his ill-refounding Noife,
Another flap-mouth'd Mourner black and grim,
Against the Welkin vollies out his Voice;
Another, and another, anfwer him,
Clapping their proud Tails to the Ground below,
Shaking their fcratcht Ears, bleeding as they go.
Look! how the World's poor People are amaz'd
At Apparitions, Signs, and Prodigies;
Whereon with fearful Eyes they long have gaz'd,
Infusing them with dreadful Prophecies:
So fhe, at these fad Signs, draws up her Breath,
And fighing it again, exclaims on Death.
Hard-favour'd Tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean,
Hateful Divorce of Love (thus chides the Death)
Grim-grinning Ghoft, Earth's Worm, what doft thou mean?
To ftifle Beauty, and to fteal his Breath?
Who when he liv'd, his Breath and Beauty fet
Glofs on the Rofe, Smell to the Violet.
If he be dead, O no! it cannot be
Seeing his Beauty, thou fhouldft ftrike at it.
O! yes, it may; thou haft no Eyes to fee,
But hatefully at random doft thou hit.
Thy Mark is feeble Age; but thy false Dart
Mistakes that Aim, and cleaves an Infant's Heart.
Hadft thou but bid beware, then he had spoke,
And hearing him, thy Power had loft his Power:
The Deftinies will curfe thee for this Stroke,
They bid thee crop a Weed, thou pluck'ft a Flower:
Love's golden Arrow at him fhould have fled,
And not Death's Ebon-Dart to ftrike him dead.
Doft thou drink Tears, that thou provok'ft fuch weeping?
What may a heavy Groan advantage thee?
Why haft thou caft into eternal fleeping
Those Eyes, that taught all other Eyes to fee?
Now Nature cares not for thy mortal Vigour,
Since her beft Work is ruin'd with thy Rigour.
Here overcome, as. One full of Despair,
She veil'd her Eye-lids, which like Sluices ftop'd
The crystal Tide, that from her two Cheeks fair
In the fweet Channel of her Bofom drop'd.
But thro the Flood-Gates breaks the filver Rain,
And with his ftrong Course opens them again.
O! how her Eyes and Tears did lend, and borrow !
Her Eyes feen in her Tears, Tears in her Eye;
Both Crystals, where they view'd each other's Sorrow:
Sorrow, that friendly Sighs fought still to dry.
But like a ftormy Day, now Wind, now Rain;
Sighs dry her Cheeks, Tears make them wet again.
Variable Paffions throng her conftant Woe,
As ftriving which fhould beft become her Grief:
All entertain'd, each Paffion labours fo,
That every present Sorrow feemeth Chief.
But none is best, then join they all together,
Like many Clouds confulting for foul Weather.
By this, far off the hears fome Huntfman hollow:
A Nurfe's Song ne'er pleas'd her Babe fo well.
The dire Imagination fhe did follow,
This Sound of Hope doth labour to expell:
For now reviving Joy bids her rejoice,
And flatters her, it is Adonis' Voice.
Whereat her Tears began to turn their Tide,
Being prifon'd in her Eye, like Pearls in Glafs :
Yet fometime falls an Orient Drop befide,
Which her Cheek melts, as fcorning it fhould pafs
To wash the foul Face of the fluttish Ground,
Who is but drunken, when the feemeth drown'd.
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