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So soon was she along, as he was down,
Each leaning on their elbows and their hips.
Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown,
And 'gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips:
And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken,
If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.

He burns with bashful shame; she, with her tears,
Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks:
Then with her windy sighs and golden hairs,
To fan and blow them dry again she seeks.

He says she is immodest, blames her miss;

What follows more, she smothers with a kiss.

Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast,
Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh and bone,
Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste.
Till either gorge be stuft, or prey be gone:
Even so she kiss'd his brow, his cheek, his chin,
And where she ends, she doth anew begin.

Forc'd to consent, but never to obey,
Panting he lies, and breathing in her face;
She feedeth on the stream as on a prey,
And calls it, heavenly moisture! air of grace!
Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers,
So they were dew'd with such distilling showers,


Look how a hird lies tangled in a net,

So fasten'd in her arms Adonis lies:

Pure shame and aw'd resistance made him fret;

Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes.
Bain added to a river that is rank,
Perforce will force it overflow the bank.

Still she entreats, and prettily entreats;
For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale:
Still he is sullen, still he lowers and frets,
'Twixt crimson shame, and angry ashy pale.

Being red, she loves him best; and being white,
Her breast is better'd with a more delight.

Look how he can, she cannot chuse but love;

And by her fair immortal hand she swears,

From his soft bosom never to remove,

Till he take truce with her contending tears;

Which long have rain'd, making her cheeks all wet, And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt.

Upon this promise did he raise his chin,

Like a dive-dapper peering thro' a wave,

Who, being look'd on, ducks as quickly in:

So offers he to give what she did crave:
But when his lips were ready for his pay,
He winks, and turns his lips another way.


. Never did passenger, in summer's heat,
More thirst for drink, than she for this good turn;
Her help she sees, but help she cannot get,
She bathes in water, yet in fire must burn.

Oh, pity, 'gan she cry, flint-hearted boy!

'Tis but a kiss I beg, why art thou coy?

I have been woo'd, as I entreat thee now,
Even by the stern and direful god of war,
Whose sinewy neck in battle ne'er did bow,
Who conquers where he comes in every jar;
Yet hath he been my captive and my slave,
And begg'd for that which thou unask'd shalt have.

Over my altars hath he hung his lance,
His batter'd shield, his uncontrolled crest;
And for my sake hath learn'd to sport and dance,
To coy, to wanton, dally, smile and jest;
Scorning his churlish drum, and ensign red,
Making my arms his field, his tent my bed.

Thus he that over-rul'd, I over-sway'd,
Leading him prisoner in a red rose chain:
Strong temper'd steel, his stronger strength obey'd,
Yet was he servile to my coy disdain.

Oh, be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,
For mast'ring her, that foil'd the god of fight!


Touch but my lips with those fair Hps of thine,
(Tho' mine be not so fair, yet they are red)
The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine;
What seest thou on the ground? Hold up thy head:

Look in mine eyeballs where thy beauty lies;

Then why not lips on lips, since eyes on eyes?

Art thou asham'd to kiss? Then wink again,

And I will wink, so shall the day seem night;

Love keeps his revels where there be but twain:

Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight.
These blue-vein'd violets whereon we lean,
Never can blab, nor know they what we mean.

The tender spring upon thy tempting lip,

Shews thee unripe ; yet may'st thou well be tasted:

Make use of time, let not advantage slip,

Beauty within itself would not be wasted.

Fair flowers, that are not gather'd in their prime,
Rot and consume themselves in little time.

Were I hard favour'd, foul, or wrinkled, old,
Ill-natur'd, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice,
O'er-worn, despised, rheumatic and cold,
Thick-sighted, barren, lean, and lacking juice,

Then might'st thou pause, for then I were not for thee;

But, having no defects, why dost abhor me?


Thou can'st not see one wrinkle in my brow,

Mine eyes are grey, and bright, and quick in turning;

My beauty, as the spring, doth yearly grow;

My flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burning;
My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt,
Would in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt.

Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear,

Or, like a fairy, trip upon the green;

Or, like a nymph, with long dishevell'd hair,

Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen:
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 sturdy trees, support me:
Two strengthless doves will draw me through the sky
From morn till night, even where I list to sport me.
Is love so light, sweet boy, and may it be,
That thou shouldst think it heavy unto thee?

Is thine own heart to thine own face affected?

Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left?

Then wooe thyself, be of thyself rejected,

Steel thine own freedom, and complain of theft.
Narcissus so himself, himself forsook,
And died to kiss his shadow in the brook.

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