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As his triumphant prize: proud of this pride,
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.

No want of conscience, hold it, that I call
Her love, for whose dear love I rise and fall.

In loving thee, thou know'st I am forsworn,
But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing;
In act thy bed-vow broke, and new faith torn,
In vowing new hate after new love bearing.
But why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee,
When I break twenty? I am perjur'd most ;
For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee;
And all my honest faith in thee is lost.

For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness;
Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy;
And to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness;
Or made them swear against the thing they see.
For I have sworn thee fair: more perjur'd I,
To swear against the truth so foul a lie.

THE TALE OF CEPHALUS AND PROCRIS.

Beneath Hymettus' hill, well cloth'd with flowers,
A holy well her soft springs gently pours:

Where stands a copse, in which the wood-nymphs shrove,
(No wood) it rather seems a slender grove.
The humble shrubs and bushes hide the grass;

Here laurel, rosemary, here myrtle was:

Here grew thick box, and tam'risk, that excels,
And made a mere confusion of sweet smells.

The triffoly, the pine; and on this heath

Stands many a plant that feels cold Zephyr's breath. Here the young Cephalus, tir'd in the chace, Us'd his repose and rest alone t' embrace; And where he sat, these words he would repeat, "Come, air, sweet air, come cool my mighty heat! "Come, gentle air, I never will forsake thee, "I'll hug thee thus, and in thy bosom take thee." Some double duteous tell-tale hapt to hear this, And to his jealous wife doth straightway bear this, Which Procris hearing, and withal the name Of air, sweet air, which he did oft proclaim, She stands confounded, and amaz'd with grief, 1 By giving this fond tale too sound belief;

And looks, as do the trees by winter nipt,

Whom frost and cold of fruit and leaves had stript.
She bends like corveil, when too rank it grows,
Or when the ripe fruits clog the quince tree boughs:
But when she comes t' herself, she tears

Her garments, eyes, her cheeks, and hairs;
And then she starts, and to her feet applies her,
Then to the wood (stark wood) in rage she hies her.
Approaching somewhat near, her servants they
By her appointment in a valley stay;

While she alone, with creeping paces, steals,
To take the strumpet, whom her lord conceals.
What mean'st thou Procris, in these groves to hide thee?
What rage of love doth to this madness guide thee?
Thou hop'st the air he calls, in all her bravery,

Will straight approach, and thou shalt see their knavery.
And now again it irks her to be there,

For such a killing sight her heart will tear.

No truce can with her troubled thoughts dispense,
She would not now be there, nor yet be thence.
Behold the place her jealous mind foretels,
Here do they use to meet, and no where else :
The grass is laid, and see their true impression;
Even here they lay! aye, here was their transgression.
A body's print she saw, it was his seat,

Which makes her faint heart 'gainst her ribs to beat.
Phoebus the lofty eastern hill had scal'd

And all moist vapours from the earth exhal'd;
Now in his noon-tide point he shineth bright;
It was the middle hour, 'twixt noon and night.
Behold young Cephalus draws to the place,
And with the fountain water sprinks his face.
Procris is hid, upon the grass he lies,

And come, sweet Zephyr, come, sweet air, he cries.
She sees her error now from where she stood,

Her mind returns to her, and her fresh blood;

Among the shrubs and briers she moves and rustles,
And the injurious boughs away she justles;
Intending, as he lay there to repose him,
Nimbly to run, and in her arms inclose him.
He quickly cast his eye upon the bush,
Thinking therein some savage beast did rush;
His bow he bends, and a keen shaft he draws;
Unhappy man, what dost thou? stay, and pause;

It is no brute beast thou would'st 'reave of life;
O! man unhappy! thou hast slain thy wife!
O heaven she cries, O help me! I am slain;
Still doth thy arrow in my wound remain.
Yet tho' by timeless fate my bones here lie,
It glads me most, that I no cuck-quean die.
Her breath (thus in the arms she most affected)
She breathes into the air (before suspected)
The whilst he lifts her body from the ground,
And with his tears doth wash her bleeding wound.

CUPID'S TREACHERY.

Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep;
A maid of Dian's this advantage found,
And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;
Which borrow'd from his holy fire of love,
A dateless lively heat still to endure,

And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove
Aainst strange maladies a sovereign cure.
But at my mistress' eyes love's brand new fired,
The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;
I sick withall the help of bath desired,
And thither hied a sad distemper'd guest:

But found no cure, the bath for my help lies,
When Cupid got new fire, my mistress' eyes.

The little love-god lying once asleep,

Laid by his side his heart and flaming brand, Whilst many nymphs that vow'd chaste life to keep, Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand,

The fairest votary took up that fire,

Which many legions of true hearts had warm'd:
And so the general of hot desire

Was, sleeping, by a virgin hand disarm'd.
This brand she quenched in a cool well by,
Which from love's fire took heat perpetual,
Growing a bath and healthful remedy
For men diseas'd; but I, my mistress' thrall,
Came there for cure, and this by that I prove,
Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.

THAT MENELAUS WAS THE CAUSE OF HIS OWN

WRONGS.

When Menelaus from his house is gone,

Poor Helen is afraid to lie alone;

And to allay these fears (lodg'd in her breast)
In her warm bosom she receives her guest.
What madness was this, Menelaus, say ?
Thou art abroad, whilst in the house doth stay,
Under the self-same roof, thy guest, and love:
Madman unto the hawk thou trust'st the dove.
And who but such a gull, would give to keep
Unto the mountain wolf, full folds of sheep?
Helen is blameless, so is Paris too,

And did what thou, er I myself would do.
The fault is thine, I tell thee to thy face,
By limiting these lovers, time and place.
From these the seeds of all thy wrongs are grown:
Whose counsels have they follow'd but thine own?
Alack! what should they do? abroad thou art;
At home thou leav'st thy guest to play thy part.
To lie alone, the poor queen is afraid;
In the next room an amorous stranger staid;
Her arms are ope t' embrace him, he falls in:
And, Paris, I acquit thee of the sin.

AND IN ANOTHER PLACE SOMEWHAT RESEMBLING

THIS.

Orestes liked, but not loved dearly

Hermoine, till he had lost her clearly.

Sad Menelaus! why dost thou lament

Thy late mishap? I pry'thee be content.

Thou know'st the amorous Helen, fair and sweet;
And yet without her didst thou sail to Crete.
And thou wast blythe, and merry all the way;
But when thou saw'st she was the Trojan's prey,
Then wast thou mad for her, and for thy life,
Thou canst not now one minute want thy wife..
So stout Achilles, when his lovely bride,
Briseis, was dispos'd to great Atride,
Nor was he vainly mov'd, Atrides too
Offer'd no more, than he of force must do.
I should have done as much, to set her free;
Yet I (heaven knows) am not so wise as he.

VULCAN was JUPITER'S Smith, an excellent workman, on whom the Poets father many rare works, among which I find this one.

MARS AND VENUS.

This tale is blaz'd through heaven, how once un'ware,
Venus and Mars were took in Vulcan's snare.

The god of war doth in his brow discover
The perfect and true pattern of a lover.
Nor could the goddess Venus be so cruel
To deny Mars; (soft kindness is a jewel
In any woman, and becomes her well)
In this the queen of love doth most excel.

(O Heaven) how often have they mockt and flouted The smith's polt-foot (whilst nothing he misdoubted ;) Made jests of him, and his begrimed trade;

And his smoog'd visage, black with coal-dust made.
Mars, tickled with loud laughter, when he saw
Venus like Vulcan limp, to halt and draw
One foot behind another, with sweet grace,
Tcounterfeit his lame uneven pace.

Vir meetings first the lovers hide with fear
From every jealous eye, and captious ear.
The god of war, and love's lascivious dame,
In public views were full of bashful shame.
But the sun spies how this sweet pair agree,
(O what, bright Phœbus, can be hid from thee?)
The Sun both sees and blabs the sight forthwith,
And in all post he speeds to tell the smith.
O Sun! what bad examples dost thou show?
What thou in secret seest must all men know?

For silence, ask a bribe from her fair treasure ;

She'll grant thee that shall make thee swell with pleasure.
The god, whose face is smoog'd with smoke and fire,
Placeth about their bed a net of wire ;

So quaintly made, that it deceives the eye.
Straight (as he feigns) to Lemnos he must hie,
The lovers meet, where he the train hath set,
And both lie fast catch'd in a wiry net:
He calls the gods, the lovers naked sprall,
And cannot rise; the queen of love shows all.
Mars chafes, and Venus weeps, neither can flinch;
Grappled they lie, in vain they kick and wince.

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