His brawny fides, with hairy briftles armed,
Are better proof, than thy fpear's point can enter;
His fhort thick neck cannot be easily harmed;
Being ireful on the lion he will venture.

The thorny brambles, and embracing bushes,
As fearful of him, part, thro' whom he rushes.

Alas! he nought efteems that face of thine,
To which love's eye pays tributary gazes;
Nor thy foft hand, fweet lips, and crystal eyne,
Whofe full perfection all the world amazes;

But having thee at 'vantage (wondrous dread!)
Would root these beauties, as he roots the mead.

O let him keep his loathfome cabin ftill!
Beauty hath nought to do with fuch foul fiends.
Come not within his danger by thy will;
They that thrive well, take counsel of their friends.
When thou didst name the boar, not to diffemble,
I fear'd thy fortune, and my joints did tremble.

Didft thou not mark my face! Was it not white?
Saw'ft thou not figns of fear lurk in mine eye ?
Grew I not faint? And fell I not downright ?
Within my bofom, whereon thou doft lie,

My boding heart pants, beats, and takes no reft,
But like an earthquake shakes thee on my breaft,

For where love reigns, difturbing jealousy
Doth call him felf affection's centinel;
Gives falfe alarms, fuggefteth mutiny,
And in a peaceful hour doth cry, kill, kill;
Diftempring gentle love with his defire,
As air and water doth abate the fire.

This four informer, this bate breeding fpy,
This canker, that eats up love's tender fpring,
This carry-tale, diffentious jealousy,

That fometime true news, fometime false doth bring; Knocks at my heart, and whispers in mine ear, That if I love thee, I thy death should fear.

And more than fo, prefenteth to mine eye
The picture of an angry chafing boar,
Under whofe fharp fangs, on his back doth lie
An image like thyfelf, all ftain'd with gore;

Whole blood upon the fresh flowers being shed,
Doth make 'em drop with grief, and hang the head.

What should I do? feeing thee so indeed ?
That trembling at th' imagination,

The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed,
And fear doth teach it divination.

I prophefy thy death, my living forrow,
If thou encounter with the boar to-morrow.

But if thou needs will hunt, be rul'd by me,
Uncouple at the timorous flying hare;
Or at the fox, which lives by fubtilty;
Or at the roe, which no encounter dare:

Purfue these fearful creatures o'er the downs, And on thy well-breath'd horse keep with thy [hounds.

And when thou haft on foot the purblind hare,
Mark the poor wretch; to overfhut his troubles,
How he out-runs the wind, and with what care,
He cranks and croffes with a thousand doubles.

The many umfits thro' the which he goes,
Are like a labyrinth t' amaze his foes.

Sometime he runs among the flock of sheep,
To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell;
And fometime where earth-delving conies keep,
To ftop the loud purfuers in their yell;

And fometime forteth with a herd of deer:
Danger deviseth fhifts, wit waits on fear.

For there his smell with others being mingled,
The hot-fcent-fnuffing hounds are driven to doubt,
Ceafing their clamorous cry, till they have fingled,
With much ado, the cold fault cleanly out,

Then do they spend their mouths; echo replies,
As if another chace were in the skies.

By this poor Wat far off, upon a hill,
Stands on his hinder legs with liftning ear,
To hearken if his foes pursue him still:
Anon their loud alarums he doth hear,

And now his grief may be compared well
To one fore fick, that hears the paffing bell.

Then fhalt thou fee the dew-bedabled wretch
Turn, and return, indenting with the way:
Each envious briar his weary legs doth fcratch,
Each fhadow makes him ftop, each murmur ftay.
For mifery is trodden on by many;
And being low, never reliev'd by any.

Lie quietly and hear a little more,

Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rife:
To make thee hate the hunting of the boar,
Unlike myself, thou hear'ft me moralize,
Applying this to that, and fo to fo;
For love can comment upon every woe.

Where did I leave? No matter where (quoth he}
Leave me, and then the ftory aptly ends:
The night is fpent. Why, what of that? (quoth fhe)
I am (quoth he) expected of my friends:

And now 'tis dark, and going I fhall fall.
In night (quoth fhe) defire fees best of all.

But if thou fall, O! then imagine this,
The earth in love with thee, thy footing trips,
And all is but to rob thee of a kifs.

Rich preys make rich men thieves, fo do thy lips
Make modeft Dian cloudy and forlorn,

Left she should steal a kifs, and die forfworn.

Now of this dark night I perceive the reafon,
Cynthia for fhame obfcures her filver fhrine,
Till forging nature be condemn'd of treason,
For ftealing molds from heaven, that were divine,
Wherein the fram'd thee in high heaven's despite,
To fhame the fun by day, and her by night.

And therefore hath fhe brib'd the deftinies
To cross the curious workmanship of nature,
To mingle beauty with infirmities,

And pure perfection with impure defeature ;
Making it fubject to the tyranny

Of fad mifchances and much mifery..

As burning fever, agues pale and faint,
Life-poifoning peftilence, and frenzies woad,
The marrow-eating fickness, whose attaint
Disorder breeds by heating of the blood:

Surfeits, impofthumes, grief, and damn'd defpair,
Swear nature's death, for framing thee fo fair.

And not the leaft of all these maladies,
But in one minute's fight brings beauty under :
Both favour, favour, hue and qualities,
Whereat th' imperial gazer late did wonder,

Are on the fudden wafted, thaw'd, and done,
As mountain fnow melts with the mid-day fun.

Therefore, defpite of fruitless chastity,
Love-lacking veftals, and felf-loving nuns,
That on the earth would breed a scarcity,
And barren dearth of daughters and of fons,
Be prodigal. The lamp that burns by night,
Dries up his oil, to lend the world his light.

What is thy body, but a fwallowing grave,
Seeming to bury that pofterity,

Which by the rights of time thou needs must have,
If thou deftroy them not in their obfcurity?
If fo, the world will hold thee in disdain,
Sith in thy pride fo fair a hope is flain.

So in thyfelf thyfelf art made away,
A mischief worse than civil home-bred ftrife,
Or theirs, whofe defperate hands themselves do flay,
Or butcher's fire, that reaves his fon of life.

Foul cankering ruft the hidden treasure frets;
But gold, that's put to ufe, more gold begets.

Nay then, quoth Adon, you will fall again
Into your idle over-handled theam;
The kifs I gave you is bestow'd in vain,
And all in vain you ftrive against the stream.
For by this black-fac'd night, defire's foul nurse,
Your treatise makes me like you worse and worse.