Every nymph on thee shall tend;
All the gods shall love thee,
Man shall not reprove thee;
Love himself shall be thy friend."

"Wend thee from me, Venus,

I am not disposed;

Thou wring'st me too hard,
Prithee let me go;

Fie! what a pain it is,

Thus to be enclosed!

If love begin with labour,

It will end in woe."
"Kiss me, I will leave."

Here, a kiss receive."

"A short kiss I do it find:

Wilt thou leave me so? Yet thou shalt not go; Breathe once more thy balmy wind. It smelleth of the myrrh-tree, That to the world did bring thee;

Never was perfume so sweet."

When she had thus spoken,
She gave him a token,

And their naked bosoms meet.

"Now," he said, "let's go,

Hark, the hounds are crying,
Grisly boar is up,

Huntsmen follow fast."

VENUS AND ADONIS

At the name of boar,

Venus seemed dying,
Deadly coloured, pale,

Roses overcast.

"Speak," said she,
Of following the boar,

no more

Thou, unfit for such a chase;
Course the fearful hare,
Venison do not spare.

If thou wilt yield Venus grace,
Shun the boar, I pray thee,
Else I still will stay thee."

Herein, he vowed to please her mind;
Then her arms enlarged,

Loth she him discharged:

Forth he went as swift as wind.

Thetis Phoebus' steeds

In the west retained,

Hunting sport was past;
Love her love did seek.
Sight of him too soon,

Gentle queen, she gained;

On the ground he lay,

Blood had left his cheek.

For an orped swine

Smit him in the groin,

Deadly wound his death did bring;

Which, when Venus found,

She fell in a swound,

And, awaked, her hands did wring. Nymphs and satyrs skipping, Came together tripping,

Echo every cry expressed;

Venus by her power

Turned him to a flower,

Which she weareth in her crest.

Samuel Daniel

First Chorus from

Hymen's Triumph

Love is a sickness full of woes,
All remedies refusing;

A plant that with most cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.

Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries,

Heigh-ho!

Love is a torment of the mind,
A tempest everlasting;
And Jove hath made it of a kind
Not well, nor full nor fasting.

Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries,

Heigh-ho!

Second Chorus from
Hymen's Triumph

ด

Desire, that is of things ungot,
See what travail it procureth,
And how much the mind endureth,
To gain what yet it gaineth not:
For never was it paid,

The charge defrayed,

According to the price of thought.