At length men used charms, Thus women welcom'd woe, Hey down a down, did Dian sing, Than love there is no vainer thing, A VISION UPON THE FAIRY QUEEN. METHOUGHT I Saw the grave where Laura lay, At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept; THE SHEPHERD'S DESCRIPTION OF LOVE. Ascribed to Sir W. Raleigh in England's Helicon. Melibaeus. SHEPHERD, what's love? I pray thee tell. Where pleasure and repentance dwell; And this is love, as I heard tell. It is December match'd with May, M. Yet, what is love? good shepherd, sain. It is a toothache, or like pain; It is a game where none doth gain; M. Yet, shepherd, what is love, I pray? A pretty kind of sporting fray, It is a thing will soon away; Then nymphs take vantage while you may, And this is love, as I hear say. M. And what is love, good shepherd, shew? A prize that passeth to and fro; And he that proves shall find it so; DULCINA. As at noon Dulcina rested In her sweet and shady bower, Came a shepherd, and requested In her lap to sleep an hour. But from her look A wound he took So deep, that for a farther boon Whereto she says, "Forego me now, come to me soon!" 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, And cheeks, as fresh as rose in June Persuade delay, What boots to say, "Forego me now, come to me soon!" He demands, what time for pleasure VOL. V. L Which she denies; "Night's murky noon 66 In Venus' plays Makes bold," says, 'Forego me now, come to me soon!" But what promise, or profession, From his hands could purchase scope? Of lingering night, Forego the present joys of noon? 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' eye discovers ? Joys unseen are never sung. Did she consent, Or he relent? Accepts he night, or grants she noon? 66 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, To bestow it where I may What care I how fair she be? Were her tresses angel gold, To convert them to a braid; Were her band as rich a prize No; she must be perfect snow, Farewell her, whate'er she be ' |