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Strike I my lute, he tunes the string ;
Whist, wanton, still ye.
Else I with roses every day
Will whip you hence, And bind you when you long to play,
For your offence. I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in, I'll make you fast it for your sin, I'll count your power not worth a pin. Alas! what hereby shall I win
If he gainsay me?
What if I beat the wanton boy
With many a rod ?
Because a god.
Spare not but play thee.
GRAVEN U PON THE BARK OF A TALL BEECH TREE.
FIRST shall the heavens want starry light,
The seas be robbed of their waves;
The night want shade, the dead men graves.
First shall the tops of highest hills
By humble plains be overpride :
And fish forsake the water glide ;
First direful hate shall turn to peace,
And love relent in deep disdain ;
And envy pity every pain,
First time shall stay his stayless race,
And winter bless his brows with corn:
And winter, spring, and summer mourn,
MONTANUS' PRAISE OF HIS FAIR PHEBE.
Sweet she sat,
Brow and eye, how much you please me!
Sighs and words could never draw her.
Since no sight could ever ease thee.
Sitting by a fount I spied her :
Sweet her touch,
Touch and voice, what may distain you ?
And by sighs whilst that I tried her,
Her first sight whose want did pain you.
Yet were Phæbe's locks more whiter. Phoebe's eyes,
Dove-like eyes both mild and cruel.
He will die for to delight her.
Shall true hearts be fancy's fuel ?
ACCURST be love, and they that trust his trains ;
He tastes the fruit, whil'st others toil :
Accurst be love, and those that trust his trains :
He lays the trap, we seek the snare:
Accurst be love, and those that trust his trains ;
He seemeth blind, yet wounds with art:
He calls for truth, yet scorns desert.