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Strike I my lute, he tunes the string ;
He music plays if so I sing ;
He lends me every lovely thing :
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting :

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 ?
He will repay me with annoy,

Because a god.
Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be ;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee :
O Cupid ! so thou pity me,

Spare not but play thee.

D

XIX.

MONTANUS' FANCY.

GRAVEN U PON THE BARK OF A TALL BEECH TREE.

FIRST

FIRST shall the heavens want starry light,

The seas be robbed of their waves;
The day want sun, and sun want bright,

The night want shade, the dead men graves.
The April, flowers and leaf and tree,
Before I false my faith to thee.

First shall the tops of highest hills

By humble plains be overpride :
And poets scorn the Muses' quills,

And fish forsake the water glide ;
And Iris loose her coloured weed,
Before I fail thee at thy need.

First direful hate shall turn to peace,

And love relent in deep disdain ;
And death his fatal stroke shall cease,

And envy pity every pain,
And pleasure mourn, and sorrow smile,
Before I talk of any guile.

First time shall stay his stayless race,

And winter bless his brows with corn:
And snow bemoisten Julia's face,

And winter, spring, and summer mourn,
Before my pen by help of fame,
Cease to recite thy sacred name.

ХХ. .

MONTANUS' PRAISE OF HIS FAIR PHEBE.

PHEBE

HEBE sat,

Sweet she sat,
Sweet sat Phæbe when I saw her;
White her brow,
Coy her eye,

Brow and eye, how much you please me!
Words I spent,
Sighs I sent,

Sighs and words could never draw her.
Oh my love,
Thou art lost,

Since no sight could ever ease thee.
Phoebe sat
By a fount,

Sitting by a fount I spied her :

Sweet her touch,
Rare her voice;

Touch and voice, what may distain you ?
As she sung,
I did sigh,

And by sighs whilst that I tried her,
Oh mine eyes,
You did lose

Her first sight whose want did pain you.
Phæbe's flocks
White as wool,

Yet were Phæbe's locks more whiter. Phoebe's eyes,

Dove-like mild,

Dove-like eyes both mild and cruel.
Montan swears
In your lamps

He will die for to delight her.
Phæbe yield,
Or I die :

Shall true hearts be fancy's fuel ?

XXI.

VIRELAY.

ACCURST be love, and they that trust his trains ;

He tastes the fruit, whil'st others toil :
He brings the lamp, we lend the oil :
He sows distress, we yield him soil:
He wageth war, we bide the foil.

Accurst be love, and those that trust his trains :

He lays the trap, we seek the snare:
He threatneth death, we speak him fair:
He coins deceits, we foster care :
He favoureth pride, we count it rare.

Accurst be love, and those that trust his trains ;

He seemeth blind, yet wounds with art:
He vows content, he pays with smart :
He swears relief, yet kills the heart:

He calls for truth, yet scorns desert.
Accurst be love, and those that trust his trains.
Whose heaven is hell ; whose perfect joys are pains.

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