He wrings her nofe, he ftrikes her on the cheeks
He bends her fingers, holds her pulfes hard,
He chafes her lips, a thousand ways he feeks
To mend the hurt, that his unkindness marr'd;
He kiffes her, and the, by her good will,
Would never rife, fo he will kifs her still.

The night of forrow now is turn'd to day,
Her two blue windows faintly fhe up-heaveth;
Like the fair fun, when in his fresh array,
He cheers the morn, and all the world relieveth:
And as the bright fun glorifies the sky,
So is her face illumin'd with her eye.

Whose beams upon his hairless face are fix'd,
As if from thence they borrow'd all their fhine:
Were never four fuch lamps together mix'd,
Had not his clouded, with his brows repine.

But hers, which thro' the crystal tears gave light,
Shone like the moon, in water seen by night.

O! where am I! (quoth fhe) in earth, or heaven!
Or in the ocean drench'd! or in the fire!
What hour is this? or morn, or weary even?
Do I delight to die? or life defire?

But now I liv'd, and life was death's annoy:
But now I dy'd, and death was lively joy.

O! thou didst kill me, kill me once again:
Thy eyes, fhrewd tutor, that hard heart of thine
Has taught them scornful tricks, and such disdain,
That they have murder'd this poor heart of mine:
And these mine eyes, true leaders to their queen,
But for thy piteous lips no more had seen.

Long may they kifs each other for this cure!
Oh never let their crimfon liveries wear!
And as they laft, their verdure ftill endure,
To drive infection from the dangerous year!
That the ftar-gazers having writ on death,
May fay, the plague is banifh'd by thy breath.

Pure lips! sweet seals! in my foft lips imprinted,
What bargains may I make still to be scaling?
To fell myfelf, I can be well contented,
So thou wilt buy and pay, and ufe good dealing:
Which purchase if thou make, for fear of flips,
Set thy feal manual on my wax-red lips.

A thousand kiffes buys my heart from me,
And pay them at thy leifure one by one.
What is ten hundred kifles unto thee?
Are they not quickly told, and quickly gone?
Say for non-payment that the debt fhould double,
Is twenty hundred kiffes fuch a trouble?

Fair queen (quoth he) if any love you owe me,
Measure my ftrangenefs with my unripe years,
Before I know myfelf, feek not to know me.
No fifher but the ungrown fry forbears;
The mellow plumb doth fall, the green sticks faft,
Cr being early pluck'd, is four to tafte.

Look, the world's comforter, with weary gait,
His day's hot tafk hath ended in the weft!
The owl (night's herald) fhrieks, 'tis very late,
The fheep are gone to fold, birds to their neft:
The cole-black clouds, that shadow heaven's light,
Do fummon us to part, and bid good-night.

Now let me fay good-night, and fo fay you:
If you will fay fo, you fhall have a kifs.
Good-night (quoth the) and ere he fays adieu,
The honey fee of parting tendred is.

Her arms do lend his neck a fweet embrace,
Incorporate then they seem, face grows to face.

Till breathlefs he disjoin'd, and backward drew
The heavenly moisture, that fweet coral mouth,
Whofe precious tafte her thirsty lips well knew,
Whereon they furfeit, yet complain on drowth:

He with her plenty prefs'd, fhe faint with dearth,
Their lips together glu'd, fall to the earth.

Now quick defire hath caught her yielding prey,
And glutton-like fhe feeds, yet never filleth;
Her lips are conquerors, his lips obey,
Paying what ranfom the infulter willeth :

Whofe vultur thought doth pitch the prize fo high
That she will draw his lips rich treasure dry.

And having felt the sweetness of the fpoil,
With blindfold fury fhe begins to forage;
Her face doth reek and fmoke, her blood doth boil,
And careless luft ftirs up a defperate courage:
Planting oblivion, beating reafon back;

Forgetting fhame's pure blufh, and honour's wrack.

Hot, faint, and weary with her hard embracing, Like a wild bird being tam'd with too much handling, Or as the fleet-foot roe, that's tir'd with chafing, Or like the froward infant ftill'd with dandling; He now obeys, and now no more refifteth, While fhe takes all she can, not all the lifteth.

What wax fo frozen, but diffolves with temp'ring?"
And yields at last to every light impreffion?
Things out of hope are compafs'd oft with vent'ring,
Chiefly in love, whofe leave exceeds commiffion.
Affection faints not, like a pale-fac'd coward,
But then wooes beft, when moft his choice is frow-
[ard.
When he did frown, O had fhe then gave over!
Such nectar from his lips fhe had not suck'd :
Foul words and frowns must not repel a lover;
What tho' the rofe have pricks? yet it is pluck'd:
Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast,

Yet love breaks thro', and picks them all at laft.

For pity now she can no more detain him;
The poor fool prays her that he may depart.
She is refolv'd no longer to reftrain him,
Bids him farewell, and look well to her heart;
The which by Cupid's bow fhe doth protest,
He carries thence ingaged in his breast.

Sweet boy, the fays, this night I'll wafte in forrow, For my fick heart commands mine eyes to watch. Tell me, love's mafter, fhall we meet to morrow? Say, fhall we, fhall we, wilt thou make the match? He tells her no: to-morrow he intends

To hunt the boar, with certain of his friends..

The boar! (quoth fhe) whereat a fudden pale,
Like lawn being spread upon the blushing rofe,
Ufurps her cheeks; fhe trembles at his tale,
And on his neck her yoking arms fhe throws:
She finketh down, ftill hanging on his neck,
He on her belly falls, fhe on her back.

Now is fhe in the very lifts of love,

Her champion mounted for the hot encounter:
All is imaginary, fhe doth prove,

He will not manage her, altho' he mount her :
That worse than Tantalus is her annoy,

To clip Elyfium, and to lack her joy.

Even as poor birds, deceiv'd with painted grapes,
Do furfeit by the eye, and pine the maw:
Even fo fhe languifheth in her mishaps,

As those poor birds, that helpless berries faw.
The warm effects which the in him finds miffing,
She feeks to kindle with continual kiffing.

But all in vain, good queen, it will not be.
She hath affay'd as much, as may be prov'd,
Her pleading hath deferv'd a greater fee:
She's love, the loves, and yet the is not lov'd!
Fie, fie, he fays, you crufh me, let me go;
You have no reason to with-hold me fo.

Thou hadst been gone (quoth fhe) fweet boy, ere this,
But that thou told'ft me thou would'st hunt the boar:
O! be advis'd; thou know'ft not what it is,
With javelin's point a churlifh fwine to gore,
Whose tufhes never fheath'd, he wetteth ftill,
Like to a mortal butcher, bent to kill.

On his bow-back he hath a battel fet
Of briftly pikes, that ever threat his foes;
His eyes, like glow-worms, fhine when he doth fret,
His fnout digs fepulchres where'er he goes:

Being mov'd, he ftrikes whate'er is in his way;
And whom he ftrikes, his crooked tushes slay.