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         Amores. English
         Ovid, 43 B.C.-17 or 18 A.D.
      
       
         
           1603
        
      
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         A08622
         STC 18931
         ESTC S104532
         99840267
         99840267
         4748
         
           
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             Ouid's elegies three bookes. By C.M. Epigrames by I.D.
             Amores. English
             Ovid, 43 B.C.-17 or 18 A.D.
             Marlowe, Christopher, 1564-1593.
             Davies, John, Sir, 1569-1626. Epigrams. aut
          
           [104] p.
           
             s.n.,
             At Middlebourgh [i.e. London :
             after 1602]
          
           
             A translation, by Christopher Marlowe, of: Ovid. Amores.
             A selection of ten elegies was previously published in "Epigrammes and elegies. By I.D. and C.M." (STC 6350 and 6350.5).
             "Epigrames" by Sir John Davies, F4r-end.
             Actual place and suggested date of publication from STC.
             This edition has an oblong woodcut ornament on title page.
             Signatures: A-F G⁴.
             A later edition than STC 18931a--see "Studies in bibliography" 25 (1972), p. 149-172.
             Reproduction of the original in the Bodleian Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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           Latin poetry -- Translations into English -- Early works to 1800.
           Love poetry, Latin -- Early works to 1800.
        
      
    
     
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           Ouids
           Elegies
           :
           
             Three
             Bookes
          
           .
        
         
           By
           C.
           M.
           
        
         
           Epigrames
           by
           I.
           D.
           
        
         
           At
           Mid
           〈…〉
           gh
           .
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
         
           P.
           Ouidij
           Nasonis
           amorum
           ,
           Liber
           primus
           .
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             1
          
           
             Quemadmodum
             à
             Cupidine
             pro
             bellis
             amores
             scribere
             coactus
             sit
             .
          
           
             VVE
             which
             were
             Ouids
             fiue
             books
             now
             are
             three
          
           
             For
             these
             before
             the
             rest
             preferreth
             he
             .
          
           
             If
             reading
             fiue
             thou
             plain'st
             of
             tediousnesse
             .
          
           
             Two
             tane
             away
             ,
             thy
             labour
             will
             be
             lesse
             .
          
           
             With
             Muse
             prepar'd
             I
             meant
             to
             sing
             of
             Armes
             ▪
          
           
             Choosing
             a
             subiect
             fit
             for
             fierce
             alarmes
             .
          
           
             Both
             verses
             were
             a
             like
             till
             lour
             (
             men
             say
             )
          
           
             Began
             to
             smile
             and
             tooke
             one
             foote
             away
             .
          
           
             Rash
             boy
             ,
             who
             gaue
             thee
             power
             to
             change
             a
             line
             ▪
          
           
             We
             are
             the
             Muses
             Prophets
             ,
             none
             of
             thine
             .
          
           
             What
             if
             thy
             mother
             take
             Di●nas
             bow
             .
          
           
             Shall
             Dian
             fanne
             ,
             when
             lone
             begins
             to
             glow
             .
          
           
             In
             wooddy
             groues
             is
             't
             meere
             that
             Ceres
             raigne
             ?
          
           
             And
             quiuer-bearing
             Dian
             till
             the
             plaine
             .
          
           
             who
             'le
             set
             the
             faire
             trest
             sunne
             in
             battell
             ray
             ,
          
           
             While
             Mars
             doth
             take
             the
             Aonian
             Harp
             to
             play
             .
          
           
             Great
             are
             thy
             kingdomes
             ,
             ouer
             strong
             and
             large
             ,
          
           
             Ambitious
             impe
             ,
             why
             ●eek'st
             thou
             further
             charge
             ?
          
           
             Are
             all
             things
             thine
             ?
             the
             Muses
             Temple
             thine
             ?
          
           
             Then
             scarse
             can
             Phoebus
             say
             ,
             this
             Harp
             is
             mine
             .
          
           
             When
             in
             this
             workes
             first
             verse
             I
             trode
             aloft
             ,
          
           
             Loue●slackt
             my
             Muse
             ,
             and
             made
             my
             numbers
             soft
             .
          
           
             I
             haue
             no
             mistresse
             ,
             nor
             no
             〈…〉
          
           
             Being
             fittest
             matter
             ,
             for
             〈…〉
          
           
           
             Thus
             I
             complain'd
             ,
             but
             loue
             vnlockt
             his
             quiuer
             ,
          
           
             Tooke
             out
             the
             shaft
             ,
             ordain'de
             my
             heart
             to
             shiuer
             :
          
           
             And
             bent
             his
             sinewie
             bow
             vpon
             his
             knee
             ,
          
           
             Saying
             Poet
             ,
             heere
             's
             a
             worke
             beseeming
             thee
             .
          
           
             Oh
             woe
             is
             me
             ,
             he
             neuer
             shootes
             but
             hits
             ,
          
           
             I
             burne
             ▪
             loue
             in
             my
             idle
             bosome
             sits
             .
          
           
             Let
             my
             first
             verse
             be
             sixe
             ,
             my
             last
             fiue
             feete
             ,
          
           
             Fare-well
             sterne
             warre
             ,
             for
             blunter
             Poets
             meete
             .
          
           
             
               Elegian
               Muse
            
             ,
             that
             warblest
             amorous
             laies
             ,
          
           
             Girt
             my
             shine
             brow
             with
             Sea-banke
             Mirtle
             praise
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             2.
             
          
           
             Quod
             prime
             amore
             correptus
             ,
             in
             triumphum
             duc●
             so
             a
             cupidine
             patiatur
             .
          
           
             VVHat
             makes
             my
             bed
             seeme
             hard
             seeing
             it
             is
             soft
             ?
          
           
             Or
             why
             slips
             downe
             the
             couerlet
             so
             oft
             ?
          
           
             Although
             the
             nights
             be
             long
             ,
             I
             sleepe
             not
             tho
             ,
          
           
             My
             sides
             are
             sore
             with
             tumbling
             to
             and
             fro
             .
          
           
             Were
             loue
             the
             cause
             ,
             it
             's
             like
             I
             should
             descry
             him
             ,
          
           
             Or
             lyes
             he
             close
             ,
             and
             shootes
             where
             none
             can
             spie
             him
             .
          
           
             'T
             was
             so
             ,
             he
             stroke
             me
             with
             a
             slender
             darr
             ,
          
           
             T
             is
             cruell
             loue
             turmoyles
             my
             captiue
             heart
             .
          
           
             Yeelding
             or
             strugling
             do
             we
             giue
             him
             might
             ,
          
           
             Let
             's
             yeeld
             ,
             a
             burthen
             easly
             borne
             is
             light
             .
          
           
             I
             saw
             a
             brandisht
             fire
             increase
             in
             strength
             ,
          
           
             Which
             being
             not
             slackt
             ,
             I
             saw
             it
             dye
             at
             length
             .
          
           
             Young
             Oxen
             newly
             yoakt
             are
             beaten
             more
             ,
          
           
             Then
             Oxen
             which
             haue
             drawne
             the
             plough
             before
             .
          
           
             And
             rough
             Iades
             mouthes
             with
             stuborne
             bits
             are
             torne
             ,
          
           
             But
             managde
             horses
             heads
             are
             lightly
             borne
             .
          
           
             Vnwilling
             louers
             ,
             loue
             doth
             more
             torment
             ,
          
           
           
             Then
             such
             as
             in
             their
             bondage
             feele
             content
             .
          
           
             Loe
             I
             confesse
             ,
             I
             am
             thy
             captiue
             I
             ,
          
           
             And
             hold
             my
             conquer'd
             hands
             for
             thee
             to
             tie
             .
          
           
             What
             need'st
             thou
             warre
             ,
             I
             sue
             to
             thee
             for
             grace
             ,
          
           
             With
             armes
             to
             conquer
             armelesse
             men
             is
             base
             .
          
           
             Yoake
             Venus
             Doues
             ,
             put
             Mirtle
             on
             thy
             haire
             ,
          
           
             Vulcan
             will
             giue
             thee
             chariots
             rich
             and
             faire
             .
          
           
             The
             people
             thee
             applauding
             thou
             shalt
             stand
             ,
          
           
             Guiding
             the
             harmelesse
             Pigeons
             with
             thy
             hand
             .
          
           
             Yong
             men
             ,
             and
             women
             shalt
             thou
             lead
             as
             thrall
             ,
          
           
             So
             will
             thy
             triumph
             seeme
             magnificall
             .
          
           
             I
             lately
             caught
             ,
             will
             haue
             a
             new
             made
             wound
             ,
          
           
             And
             captiue
             like
             be
             manacled
             and
             bound
             .
          
           
             Good
             meaning
             shame
             ,
             and
             such
             as
             seeke
             loues
             wra●●
          
           
             Shall
             follow
             thee
             their
             hands
             tyed
             at
             their
             back
             .
          
           
             Thee
             all
             shall
             feare
             ,
             and
             worship
             as
             a
             King
             ,
          
           
             Io
             ,
             ●riumphing
             shall
             thy
             people
             sing
             .
          
           
             Smooth
             speaches
             ,
             feare
             ,
             and
             rage
             shall
             by
             thee
             ride
             ▪
          
           
             Which
             troupes
             haue
             alwayes
             bene
             on
             Cupids
             side
             ▪
          
           
             Thou
             with
             these
             soul
             ●iours
             ,
             conquerest
             Gods
             and
             men●
          
           
             Take
             these
             away
             ,
             where
             is
             thine
             honour
             then
             ?
          
           
             Thy
             mother
             shall
             from
             heauen
             applaude
             this
             show
             ,
          
           
             And
             on
             their
             faces
             heapes
             of
             Roses
             strow
             .
          
           
             With
             beautie
             of
             thy
             wings
             thy
             faire
             haire
             guilded
             ,
          
           
             Ride
             golden
             loue
             in
             chariots
             richly
             builded
             .
          
           
             Vnlesse
             I
             erre
             ,
             full
             many
             shalt
             thou
             burne
             ,
          
           
             And
             giue
             wounds
             infinite
             at
             euery
             turne
             .
          
           
             In
             spite
             of
             thee
             forth
             will
             thine
             arrowes
             flye
             ,
          
           
             A
             scortching
             flame
             burnes
             all
             the
             standers
             by
             .
          
           
             So
             hauing
             coquer'd
             Iude
             was
             Bacchus
             hew
             ,
          
           
             The
             pompous
             Birds
             ,
             and
             him
             two
             Tygers
             drew
             .
          
           
             Then
             seeing
             I
             grace
             thy
             show
             in
             following
             thee
             ,
          
           
           
             Forbeare
             to
             hurt
             thy selfe
             in
             spoyling
             me
             .
          
           
             Behold
             thy
             kins-mans
             Caesars
             prosperous
             bands
             ,
          
           
             Who
             guards
             thee
             conquered
             ,
             with
             his
             conquering
             hands
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             3.
             
          
           
             Ad
             amicam
             .
          
           
             I
             Aske
             but
             right
             :
             let
             he
             that
             caught
             me
             late
             ,
          
           
             Either
             loue
             ,
             or
             cause
             that
             I
             may
             neuer
             hate
             .
          
           
             I
             aske
             too
             much
             ,
             would
             she
             but
             let
             me
             loue
             her
             ,
          
           
             Ioue
             knowes
             with
             such
             like
             prayers
             I
             daily
             moue
             her
             .
          
           
             Accept
             him
             that
             will
             serue
             thee
             all
             his
             youth
             ,
          
           
             Accept
             him
             that
             will
             loue
             with
             spotelesse
             truth
             .
          
           
             If
             loftie
             titles
             cannot
             make
             me
             thine
             ,
          
           
             That
             am
             descended
             but
             of
             Knightly
             line
             .
          
           
             Soone
             may
             you
             plow
             the
             little
             land
             I
             haue
             ,
          
           
             I
             gladly
             grant
             my
             parents
             giuen
             ,
             to
             saue
             .
          
           
             
               Apollo
               ,
               Bacchus
            
             and
             the
             Muses
             may
             ,
          
           
             And
             Cupid
             who
             hath
             markt
             me
             for
             thy
             pray
             .
          
           
             My
             spotelesse
             life
             ,
             which
             but
             to
             Gods
             giue
             place
             ,
          
           
             Naked
             simplicity
             ,
             and
             modest
             grace
             .
          
           
             I
             loue
             but
             one
             ,
             and
             her
             I
             loue
             ,
             change
             neuer
             ,
          
           
             If
             men
             haue
             faith
             ,
             I
             'le
             liue
             with
             thee
             for
             euer
             .
          
           
             The
             yeares
             that
             fatall
             destinie
             shall
             giue
             ,
          
           
             I
             'le
             liue
             with
             thee
             ,
             and
             dye
             ,
             ere
             thou
             shalt
             grieue
             .
          
           
             Be
             thou
             the
             happy
             subiect
             of
             my
             bookes
             .
          
           
             That
             I
             may
             write
             things
             worthy
             thy
             faire
             lookes
             .
          
           
             By
             verses
             horned
             Io
             got
             her
             name
             ,
          
           
             And
             she
             to
             whom
             in
             shape
             of
             Swanne
             Ioue
             came
             .
          
           
             And
             she
             that
             on
             a
             fain'd
             Bull
             swamme
             to
             land
             ,
          
           
             Griping
             his
             false
             hornes
             with
             her
             virgin
             hand
             .
          
           
             So
             likewise
             we
             will
             through
             the
             world
             be
             rung
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             my
             name
             shall
             thine
             be
             alwayes
             sung
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             4.
             
          
           
             Amicam
             ,
             qua
             arte
             ,
             quibusue
             nutibus
             in
             caena
             presente
             viro
             vti
             debeat
             ,
             admonet
             .
          
           
             THy
             husband
             to
             a
             banquet
             goes
             with
             me
             ,
          
           
             Pray
             God
             it
             may
             his
             latest
             supper
             be
             .
          
           
             Shall
             I
             sit
             gazing
             as
             a
             bashfull
             guest
             ,
          
           
             While
             others
             touch
             the
             damse●l
             I
             loue
             best
             ?
          
           
             With
             lying
             ,
             vnder
             him
             his
             bosome
             clippe
             ?
          
           
             About
             thy
             neck
             shall
             he
             at
             pleasure
             skippe
             ?
          
           
             Marueile
             not
             ,
             though
             the
             faire
             Bride
             did
             incite
             ,
          
           
             The
             drunken
             Centaures
             to
             a
             sodaine
             fight
             .
          
           
             I
             am
             no
             halfe
             horse
             ,
             nor
             in
             woods
             I
             dwell
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             scarse
             my
             hands
             from
             thee
             containe
             I
             well
             .
          
           
             But
             how
             thou
             should'st
             behaue
             thy selfe
             now
             know
          
           
             Nor
             let
             the
             windes
             away
             my
             warnings
             blow
             .
          
           
             Before
             thy
             husband
             come
             ,
             though
             I
             not
             see
             ,
          
           
             What
             may
             be
             done
             ,
             ●et
             there
             before
             hi●
             be
             .
          
           
             Lye
             with
             him
             gently
             ,
             when
             his
             limbes
             he
             spread
             ,
          
           
             Vpon
             the
             bed
             ,
             but
             on
             my
             feete
             first
             tread
             .
          
           
             View
             me
             ,
             my
             becks
             ,
             and
             speaking
             countenance
             ,
          
           
             Take
             ,
             and
             receiue
             each
             secret
             amorous
             glaunce
             .
          
           
             Words
             without
             voyce
             shall
             on
             my
             eye-browes
             sit
             ,
          
           
             Lines
             thou
             shalt
             read
             in
             wyne
             by
             my
             hand
             writ
             .
          
           
             When
             our
             lasciuious
             toyes
             come
             to
             thy
             minde
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             Rosie
             cheekes
             be
             to
             thy
             thombe
             inc●●n●e
             .
          
           
             If
             ought
             of
             me
             thou
             speak'st
             in
             inward
             thought
             ,
          
           
             Let
             thy
             soft
             finger
             to
             thy
             eare
             be
             brought
             .
          
           
             When
             I
             (
             my
             light
             )
             do
             or
             say
             ought
             that
             please
             thee
             ,
          
           
             Turne
             round
             thy
             gold-ring
             ,
             as
             it
             were
             to
             ease
             thee
             .
          
           
             Strike
             on
             the
             boord
             like
             them
             that
             pray
             for
             euill
             ,
          
           
             When
             thou
             doest
             wish
             thy
             husband
             at
             the
             deu●l
             .
          
           
           
             What
             wine
             he
             fills
             thee
             ,
             wisely
             will
             him
             drinke
             ,
          
           
             Aske
             thou
             the
             boy
             ,
             what
             thou
             enough
             doest
             thinke
             .
          
           
             When
             thou
             hast
             tasted
             ,
             I
             will
             take
             the
             cup
             ,
          
           
             And
             where
             thou
             drink'st
             ,
             on
             that
             part
             I
             will
             sup
             .
          
           
             If
             he
             giues
             thee
             what
             first
             himselfe
             did
             tast
             ,
          
           
             Euen
             in
             his
             face
             his
             offered
             Goblets
             cast
             .
          
           
             Let
             not
             thy
             neck
             by
             his
             vile
             armes
             be
             prest
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             leaue
             thy
             soft
             head
             on
             his
             boistrous
             brest
             .
          
           
             Thy
             besomes
             Roseat
             buds
             let
             him
             not
             finger
             ,
          
           
             Chiefely
             on
             thy
             lips
             let
             not
             his
             lips
             linger
             .
          
           
             If
             thou
             giuest
             kisses
             ,
             I
             shall
             all
             disclose
             ,
          
           
             Say
             they
             are
             mine
             ,
             and
             hands
             on
             thee
             impose
             .
          
           
             Yet
             this
             I
             'le
             see
             ,
             but
             if
             thy
             gowne
             ought
             couer
             ,
          
           
             Suspitious
             feare
             in
             all
             my
             veines
             will
             houer
             .
          
           
             Mingle
             not
             thighes
             ,
             nor
             to
             his
             legge
             ioyne
             thine
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             thy
             soft
             foote
             with
             his
             hard
             foote
             combine
             .
          
           
             I
             haue
             beene
             wanton
             ,
             therefore
             am
             perplext
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             mistrust
             of
             the
             like
             measure
             vext
             .
          
           
             I
             and
             my
             wench
             oft
             vnder
             clothes
             did
             lurke
             ,
          
           
             When
             pleasure
             mou'd
             vs
             to
             our
             sweetest
             worke
             .
          
           
             Do
             not
             thou
             so
             ,
             but
             throw
             thy
             mantle
             hence
             ,
          
           
             Least
             I
             should
             thinke
             thee
             guilty
             of
             offense
             .
          
           
             Entreat
             thy
             husband
             drinke
             ,
             but
             do
             not
             kisse
             ,
          
           
             And
             while
             he
             drinks
             ,
             to
             adde
             more
             do
             not
             misse
             ,
          
           
             If
             he
             lyes
             downe
             with
             wine
             and
             sleepe
             opprest
             ,
          
           
             The
             thing
             and
             place
             shall
             counsell
             vs
             the
             rest
             .
          
           
             When
             to
             goe
             home●
             wards
             we
             rise
             all
             along
             ,
          
           
             Haue
             care
             to
             walke
             in
             middle
             of
             the
             throng
             .
          
           
             There
             will
             I
             finde
             thee
             or
             be
             found
             by
             thee
             ,
          
           
             There
             touch
             what
             euer
             thou
             canst
             touch
             of
             me
             .
          
           
             Aye
             me
             I
             warne
             what
             profits
             some
             few
             howers
             ,
          
           
             But
             we
             must
             part
             ,
             when
             heau'n
             with
             black
             night
             lowers●
          
           
           
             At
             night
             thy
             husband
             clippes
             ,
             I
             will
             weepe
          
           
             And
             to
             the
             dores
             sight
             of
             thy selfe
             keepe
             ;
          
           
             Then
             will
             he
             kisse
             thee
             ,
             and
             not
             onely
             kisse
             ,
          
           
             But
             force
             thee
             giue
             him
             my
             stolne
             honey
             blisse
             .
          
           
             Constrain'd
             against
             thy
             will
             giue
             it
             the
             pezan●s●
          
           
             Forbeare
             sweet
             wordes
             ,
             and
             be
             your
             sport
             vnpleasant
             .
          
           
             To
             him
             I
             pray
             it
             no
             delight
             may
             bring
             ,
          
           
             Or
             if
             it
             do
             :
             to
             thee
             no
             ioy
             thence
             spring
             .
          
           
             But
             though
             this
             night
             thy
             fortune
             be
             to
             trie
             it
             ,
          
           
             To
             me
             to
             morrow
             constantly
             deny
             it
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             5.
             
          
           
             Corinnae
             Concubitus
             .
          
           
             IN
             summers
             heate
             and
             mid-time
             of
             the
             day
             ,
          
           
             To
             rest
             my
             limbes
             vpon
             a
             bed
             I
             lay
             .
          
           
             One
             window
             shut
             ,
             the
             other
             open
             stood
             ,
          
           
             Which
             gaue
             such
             light
             ,
             ●s
             twincles
             in
             a
             wood
             .
          
           
             Like
             twilight
             glimps
             at
             setting
             of
             the
             Sunne
             ,
          
           
             Or
             night
             being
             past
             ,
             and
             yet
             not
             day
             begunne
             .
          
           
             Such
             light
             to
             shamefast
             maidens
             must
             be
             showne
             ,
          
           
             Where
             they
             may
             sport
             ,
             and
             seeme
             to
             be
             vnknowne
             .
          
           
             Then
             came
             Corinna
             in
             a
             long
             loose
             gowne
             ,
          
           
             Her
             white
             neck
             hid
             with
             tresses
             hanging
             downe
             .
          
           
             Resembling
             fayre
             Semiramis
             going
             to
             bed
             ,
          
           
             Or
             Layis
             of
             a
             thousand
             woers
             sped
             .
          
           
             I
             snacht
             her
             gowne
             being
             thin
             ,
             the
             harme
             was
             small
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             striu'd
             she
             to
             be
             couered
             there
             withall
             .
          
           
             And
             striuing
             thus
             as
             one
             that
             would
             be
             cast
             ,
          
           
             Betray'd
             her selfe
             ,
             and
             yeelded
             at
             the
             last
             .
          
           
             Starke
             naked
             as
             she
             stood
             before
             mine
             eye
             ,
          
           
             Not
             one
             wen
             in
             her
             body
             could
             I
             spie
             .
          
           
           
             What
             armes
             and
             shoulders
             did
             I
             touch
             and
             see
             ,
          
           
             How
             apt
             her
             breasts
             were
             to
             be
             pr●st
             by
             me
             .
          
           
             How
             smooth
             a
             belly
             vnder
             her
             wast
             saw
             I
             ?
          
           
             How
             large
             a
             legge
             ,
             and
             what
             a
             lustie
             thigh
             ?
          
           
             To
             leaue
             the
             rest
             all
             lik'd
             me
             passin●
             well
             ,
          
           
             I
             cling'd
             her
             naked
             body
             ,
             downe
             the
             fell
             ,
          
           
             Iudge
             you
             the
             rest
             ,
             being
             t●●de
             she
             b●d
             me
             kisse
             ,
          
           
             Io●e
             send
             me
             more
             such
             after-noones
             as
             this
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             6.
             
          
           
             Ad
             Ianitorem
             ,
             vt
             fores
             sibo
             aperiat
             .
          
           
             VNworthy
             porter
             ,
             bound
             in
             chaines
             full
             sore
             ,
          
           
             On
             mooued
             hookes
             set
             ope
             the
             chur●sh
             dore
             .
          
           
             Little
             I
             aske
             ,
             a
             little
             entrance
             make
             ,
          
           
             The
             gate
             halfe
             ope
             my
             bent
             side
             in
             will
             take
             .
          
           
             Long
             loue
             my
             body
             to
             such
             vse
             make
             slender
             ,
          
           
             And
             to
             get
             out
             doth
             like
             apt
             members
             render
             .
          
           
             He
             shewes
             me
             how
             vn●eard
             to
             passe
             the
             watch
             ,
          
           
             And
             guides
             my
             feete
             least
             stumbling
             falles
             they
             catch
          
           
             But
             in
             times
             past
             I
             fear'd
             vaines
             shades
             ,
             and
             night
             ,
          
           
             Wondring
             if
             any
             walked
             without
             light
             .
          
           
             Loue
             hearing
             it
             laug'd
             with
             his
             tender
             mother
             ,
          
           
             And
             smiling
             sayd
             ,
             be
             thou
             as
             bold
             as
             other
             .
          
           
             Forth-with
             loue
             came
             ,
             no
             darke
             night
             flying
             spright
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             hands
             prepar'd
             to
             slaughter
             ,
             me
             affright
             .
          
           
             Thee
             feare
             I
             too
             much
             :
             onely
             thee
             I
             flatter
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             lightning
             can
             my
             life
             in
             pieces
             batter
             .
          
           
             Why
             enuiest
             me
             ,
             this
             hostile
             dende
             vnbarre
             ,
          
           
             See
             how
             the
             gates
             with
             my
             teares
             wat'red
             are
             .
          
           
             When
             thou
             stood'st
             naked
             ready
             to
             be
             beate
             ,
          
           
             For
             thee
             I
             did
             thy
             mistresse
             faire
             intreate
             .
          
           
           
             But
             what
             entreates
             for
             thee
             some-times
             tooke
             place
             ,
          
           
             (
             O
             mischiefe
             )
             now
             for
             me
             obtaine
             small
             grace
             .
          
           
             Gratis
             thou
             maiest
             be
             free
             giue
             like
             for
             like
             ,
          
           
             Night
             goes
             away
             :
             the
             dores
             barre
             back
             ward
             strike
             .
          
           
             Strike
             ,
             so
             againe
             hard
             chaines
             shall
             binde
             thee
             neuer
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             seruile
             water
             shalt
             thou
             drinke
             for
             euer
             ,
          
           
             Hard-hearted
             Porter
             doest
             and
             wilt
             not
             heare
             ,
          
           
             With
             stiffe
             oake
             propt
             the
             gate
             doth
             still
             appeare
             .
          
           
             Such
             rampierd
             gates
             besieged
             Citties
             ayde
             ,
          
           
             In
             midst
             of
             peace
             why
             art
             of
             armes
             afrayde
             ?
          
           
             Exclud'st
             a
             louer
             ,
             how
             would'st
             vse
             a
             foe
             ?
          
           
             Strike
             back
             the
             barre
             ,
             night
             fast
             away
             doth
             goe
             .
          
           
             With
             armes
             or
             armed
             men
             I
             come
             not
             guarded
             ,
          
           
             I
             am
             alone
             ,
             were
             furious
             loue
             discarded
             .
          
           
             Although
             I
             would
             ,
             I
             cannot
             him
             cashiere
             ,
          
           
             Before
             I
             be
             deuided
             from
             my
             geere
             .
          
           
             See
             loue
             with
             me
             ,
             wyne
             moderate
             in
             my
             braine
             ,
          
           
             And
             on
             my
             haires
             a
             crowne
             of
             flowers
             remaine
             .
          
           
             Who
             feares
             these
             armes
             ?
             who
             will
             not
             goe
             to
             meet
             them
             ,
          
           
             Night
             runnes
             away
             ,
             with
             open
             entrance
             gree●te
             them
             ?
          
           
             Art
             carelesse
             ?
             or
             ist
             sleepe
             forbids
             thee
             heare
             ,
          
           
             Giuing
             the
             windes
             my
             words
             running
             in
             thine
             care
             .
          
           
             Well
             I
             remember
             when
             I
             first
             did
             hire
             thee
             ,
          
           
             Watching
             till
             after
             mid-night
             did
             not
             tire
             thee
             .
          
           
             But
             now
             perchannce
             thy
             wench
             with
             thee
             doth
             rest
             ,
          
           
             Ah
             how
             thy
             lot
             ,
             is
             aboue
             my
             lot
             blest
             :
          
           
             Though
             it
             be
             so
             ,
             shut
             me
             not
             out
             therefore
             ,
          
           
             Night
             goes
             away
             :
             I
             pray
             thee
             ope
             the
             dore
             .
          
           
             Erre
             we
             ?
             or
             do
             the
             turned
             hinges
             sound
             ,
          
           
             And
             opening
             dores
             with
             creaking
             noyse
             abound
             ?
          
           
             We
             erre
             :
             a
             strong
             blast
             seem'd
             the
             gates
             ●o
             ●ope
             :
          
           
             A●e
             me
             how
             high
             that
             gale
             did
             lift
             my
             hope
             !
          
           
           
             If
             Boreas
             beares
             Orithyas
             rape
             in
             minde
             ,
          
           
             Some
             breake
             these
             deafe
             dores
             with
             thy
             boisterous
             winde
             .
          
           
             Silent
             the
             citie
             is
             :
             nights
             dea
             wie
             hoast
             ,
          
           
             March
             fast
             away
             :
             the
             barre
             strike
             from
             the
             poast
             .
          
           
             Or
             I
             more
             sterne
             then
             fire
             or
             sword
             will
             turne
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             my
             brand
             these
             gorgeous
             houses
             burne
             .
          
           
             Night
             ,
             loue
             ,
             and
             wine
             to
             all
             extreames
             perswade
             :
          
           
             Night
             ,
             shamelesse
             wyne
             ,
             and
             loue
             are
             fearelesse
             made
             .
          
           
             All
             haue
             I
             spent
             :
             no
             threats
             or
             prayer
             moue
             thee
             ,
          
           
             O
             harder
             then
             the
             dores
             thou
             gardest
             I
             proue
             thee
             .
          
           
             No
             pretty
             wenches
             keeper
             may
             ●st
             thou
             be
             ,
          
           
             The
             carefull
             prison
             is
             more
             meete
             for
             thee
             .
          
           
             Now
             forsty
             night
             her
             flight
             beginnes
             to
             take
             ,
          
           
             And
             crowing
             Cocks
             poore
             soules
             to
             worke
             awake
             .
          
           
             But
             thou
             my
             crowne
             from
             sad
             haires
             tane
             away
             ,
          
           
             On
             this
             hard
             threshold
             till
             the
             morning
             lay
             .
          
           
             That
             when
             my
             mistresse
             there
             beholds
             thee
             cast
             ,
          
           
             She
             may
             perceiue
             how
             we
             the
             time
             did
             wast
             .
          
           
             What
             ere
             thou
             art
             ,
             farewell
             ,
             be
             like
             me
             pain'd
             ,
          
           
             Carelesse
             farewell
             ,
             with
             my
             fault
             not
             distain'd
             .
          
           
             And
             farewell
             cruell
             posts
             rough
             thresholds
             block
             ,
          
           
             And
             dores
             conioyn'd
             with
             an
             hard
             iron
             lock
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             7.
             
          
           
             Ad
             pacandam
             amicam
             ,
             quam
             verberauerat
             .
          
           
             BInde
             fast
             my
             hands
             ,
             they
             haue
             deserued
             chaines
             ,
          
           
             While
             rage
             is
             absent
             ,
             take
             some
             friend
             the
             paines
             .
          
           
             For
             rage
             against
             my
             wench
             mou'd
             my
             rash
             arme
             ,
          
           
             My
             mistresse
             weepes
             whom
             my
             mad
             hand
             did
             harme
             .
          
           
             I
             might
             haue
             then
             my
             parents
             deare
             misus'd
             ,
          
           
             Or
             holy
             Gods
             with
             cruell
             stroakes
             abus'd
             .
          
           
           
             Why
             ?
             Aiax
             maister
             of
             the
             seuen-fold
             shield
             ,
          
           
             Bu●cher'd
             the
             flocks
             he
             found
             in
             spatious
             field
             .
          
           
             And
             he
             who
             on
             his
             mother
             veng'd
             his
             fire
             ,
          
           
             Against
             ●●e
             destinies
             durst
             ,
             sharp
             darts
             require
             .
          
           
             Could
             I
             therefore
             her
             comely
             tresses
             teare
             ?
          
           
             Y●t
             was
             she
             graced
             with
             her
             ruffled
             hayre
             .
          
           
             〈◊〉
             she
             was
             ,
             Atalanta
             she
             resembled
             ,
          
           
             〈◊〉
             whose
             bow
             
               th'
               Arcadian
            
             wild
             beasts
             trembled
             .
          
           
             〈◊〉
             Ariadne
             was
             ,
             when
             she
             bewayles
             ,
          
           
             ●span
             ;
             Theseus
             flying
             vowes
             and
             sayles
             .
          
           
             ●span
             ;
             Minerua
             did
             Cassandra
             fall
             ,
          
           
             D●flowr'd
             except
             ,
             within
             thy
             Temple
             wall
             .
          
           
             That
             I
             was
             mad
             ,
             and
             barbarous
             all
             men
             cryed
             ,
          
           
             She
             nothing
             said
             ,
             pale
             feare
             her
             tongne
             had
             tyed
             .
          
           
             But
             secretly
             her
             lookes
             with
             checks
             did
             trounce
             me
             ,
          
           
             Her
             teares
             ,
             she
             silent
             ,
             guilty
             did
             pronounce
             me
             .
          
           
             Would
             of
             mine
             armes
             ,
             my
             shoulders
             had
             beene
             scanted
             ,
          
           
             Better
             I
             could
             part
             of
             my selfe
             haue
             wanted
             .
          
           
             To
             mine
             owne
             selfe
             haue
             I
             had
             strength
             so
             furious
             ?
          
           
             And
             to
             my selfe
             could
             I
             be
             so
             iniurious
             ?
          
           
             Slaughter
             and
             mischiefes
             instruments
             ,
             no
             better
             ,
          
           
             Deserued
             chaines
             these
             cursed
             hands
             shall
             fetter
             .
          
           
             Punisht
             I
             am
             ,
             if
             I
             a
             Romaine
             beat
             ,
          
           
             Ouer
             my
             Mistris
             is
             my
             right
             more
             great
             .
          
           
             Tydides
             left
             worst
             signes
             of
             villanie
             ,
          
           
             He
             first
             a
             Goddesse
             strooke
             ;
             another
             I.
          
           
             Yet
             he
             harm'd
             lesse
             ,
             whom
             I
             profess'd
             to
             loue
             ,
          
           
             I
             harm'd
             :
             a
             soe
             did
             Diomedes
             anger
             moue
             .
          
           
             Go
             now
             thou
             Conqueror
             ,
             glorious
             triumphs
             raise
             ,
          
           
             Pay
             vowes
             to
             Ioue
             :
             engirt
             thy
             haires
             with
             b●ies
             .
          
           
             And
             let
             the
             troupes
             which
             shall
             thy
             Chariot
             follow
             ,
          
           
             Io
             ,
             a
             strong
             man
             conquer'd
             this
             wench
             ,
             hollow
             .
          
           
           
             Let
             the
             sad
             captiue
             formost
             with
             lockes
             spred
             ,
          
           
             On
             her
             white
             neck
             but
             for
             hurt
             cheekes
             ke●
             led
             .
          
           
             Meeter
             it
             were
             her
             lips
             were
             blew
             with
             kissing
             ,
          
           
             And
             on
             he
             neck
             a
             wanton
             marke
             not
             missing
             .
          
           
             But
             though
             I
             like
             a
             swelling
             fllood
             was
             driuen
             ,
          
           
             And
             as
             a
             pray
             vnto
             blinde
             anger
             giuen
             .
          
           
             Wa'
             st
             not
             enough
             the
             fearefull
             wench
             to
             childe
             ?
          
           
             Nor
             thunder
             in
             rough
             threatings
             haughty
             pride
             ?
          
           
             Nor
             shamefully
             her
             coate
             pull
             ore
             her
             crowne
             ,
          
           
             Which
             to
             her
             wast
             her
             girdle
             still
             kept
             downe
             ,
          
           
             But
             cruelly
             her
             tresses
             hauing
             rent
             ,
          
           
             My
             nayles
             to
             scratch
             her
             louely
             cheekes
             I
             bent
             .
          
           
             Sighing
             she
             stood
             ,
             her
             blood-lesse
             white
             lookes
             shewed
             ,
          
           
             Like
             marble
             from
             the
             Parian
             Mountaines
             hewed
             .
          
           
             Her
             halfe
             dead
             ioynts
             ,
             and
             trembling
             limmes
             I
             saw
             ,
          
           
             Like
             Popler
             leaues
             blowne
             with
             a
             stormy
             flaw
             .
          
           
             Or
             slender
             eares
             ,
             with
             gentle
             Zephire
             shaken
             ,
          
           
             Or
             waters
             tops
             with
             the
             warme
             south-winde
             taken
             .
          
           
             And
             downe
             her
             cheekes
             ,
             the
             trickling
             teares
             did
             flow
             ,
          
           
             Like
             water
             gushing
             from
             consuming
             snow
             .
          
           
             Then
             first
             I
             did
             perceiue
             I
             had
             offended
             ,
          
           
             My
             blood
             ,
             the
             teares
             were
             that
             from
             her
             descended
          
           
             Before
             her
             feete
             thrice
             prosttate
             downe
             I
             fell
             ,
          
           
             My
             feared
             hands
             thrice
             back
             she
             did
             repell
             .
          
           
             But
             doubt
             thou
             not
             (
             reuenge
             doth
             griefe
             appease
             ,
             )
          
           
             With
             thy
             sharp
             nayles
             vpon
             my
             face
             to
             seaze
             .
          
           
             Bescrath
             mine
             eyes
             ,
             spare
             not
             my
             lockes
             to
             breake
             ,
          
           
             (
             Anger
             will
             help
             thy
             hands
             though
             nere
             so
             weake
             .
             )
          
           
             And
             least
             the
             sad
             signes
             of
             my
             crime
             remaine
             ,
          
           
             Put
             in
             their
             place
             thy
             keembed
             haires
             againe
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             8.
             
          
           
             Exacratur
             lenam●
             quae
             puellam
             suam
             meretrici●
             arte
             instit●ebat
             .
          
           
             THere
             is
             ,
             who
             ere
             will
             know
             a
             bawde
             aright
             .
          
           
             Giue
             eare
             ,
             there
             is
             an
             old
             trot
             Dipsas
             hight
             .
          
           
             Her
             name
             comes
             from
             the
             thing
             :
             she
             being
             wise
             ,
          
           
             Sees
             not
             the
             morne
             on
             rosie
             hoises
             rise
             .
          
           
             She
             magick
             artes
             and
             Thessale
             charmes
             doth
             know
             ,
          
           
             And
             makes
             large
             streams
             back
             to
             their
             fountaines
             flow
             ,
          
           
             She
             knows
             with
             gras
             ,
             with
             thrids
             on
             wrōg
             wheeles
             spun
             ,
          
           
             And
             what
             with
             Mares
             ranck
             humour
             may
             be
             done
             .
          
           
             When
             she
             will
             ,
             cloudes
             the
             darkned
             heau'n
             obscure
             ,
          
           
             When
             she
             will
             ,
             day
             shiner
             euery
             where
             most
             pure
             .
          
           
             (
             If
             I
             haue
             faith
             )
             I
             saw
             the
             starres
             drop
             blood
             ,
          
           
             The
             purple
             moone
             with
             sanguine
             visage
             stood
             ;
          
           
             Her
             I
             suspect
             among
             nights
             spirits
             to
             flie
             ,
          
           
             And
             her
             old
             body
             in
             birdes
             plumes
             to
             lie
             .
          
           
             Fame
             sayth
             as
             I
             suspect
             ,
             and
             in
             her
             eyes
             ,
          
           
             Two
             eye-balles
             shine
             ,
             and
             double
             light
             thence
             flies
             .
          
           
             Great
             grand-sires
             from
             their
             ancient
             graues
             she
             chides
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             long
             charmes
             the
             solide
             earth
             diuides
             .
          
           
             She
             drawes
             chast
             women
             to
             incontinence
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             doth
             her
             tongue
             want
             harmefull
             eloquence
             .
          
           
             By
             chaunce
             I
             heard
             her
             talke
             ,
             these
             words
             she
             said
             ,
          
           
             While
             closely
             hid
             betwixt
             two
             dores
             I
             layed
             .
          
           
             Mistris
             thou
             knowest
             ,
             thou
             haft
             a
             blest
             youth
             pleasd
             ,
          
           
             He
             stayde●
             and
             on
             thy
             lookes
             his
             gazes
             seaz'd
             .
          
           
             And
             why
             should
             '
             st
             not
             please
             ?
             none
             thy
             face
             exceedes
             ,
          
           
             Aye●
             m●
             ,
             thy
             body
             hath
             no
             worthy
             weedes
             .
          
           
             As
             thou
             art
             faire
             ,
             would
             thou
             wert
             fortunate
             ,
          
           
             Wert
             thou
             rich
             ,
             poore
             should
             not
             be
             my
             state
             .
          
           
           
             Th'opposed
             starre
             of
             .
             Mars
             hath
             done
             thee
             harme
             ,
          
           
             Now
             Mars
             is
             gone
             :
             Venus
             thy
             side
             doth
             warme
             ,
          
           
             And
             brings
             good
             fortune
             ,
             a
             rich
             louer
             plants
             ,
          
           
             His
             loue
             on
             thee
             ,
             and
             can
             supply
             thy
             wants
             .
          
           
             Such
             is
             his
             forme
             as
             may
             with
             thine
             compare
             ,
          
           
             Would
             he
             not
             buy
             thee
             ,
             thou
             for
             him
             should'st
             care
             .
          
           
             She
             blush'tired
             shame
             becomes
             white
             checkes
             ,
             but
             this
          
           
             If
             feigned
             ,
             doth
             well
             ;
             if
             true
             it
             doth
             amisse
             .
          
           
             When
             on
             thy
             lappe
             thine
             eyes
             thou
             doest
             deiect
             ,
          
           
             Each
             one
             according
             to
             his
             gifts
             respect
             .
          
           
             Perhaps
             the
             Sabines
             rude
             ,
             when
             Tatius
             r●ignde
             ,
          
           
             To
             yeeld
             their
             loue
             to
             more
             then
             one
             disdainde
             .
          
           
             Now
             Mars
             doth
             rage
             abroad
             without
             all
             pitty
             ,
          
           
             And
             Venus
             rules
             in
             her
             Aeneas
             citty
             .
          
           
             Faire
             women
             play
             shee
             's
             chast
             whom
             none
             will
             haue
             ,
          
           
             Or
             ,
             but
             for
             bashfulnesse
             her selfe
             would
             craue
             .
          
           
             Shake
             off
             these
             wrinkles
             that
             thy
             front
             assault
             ,
          
           
             Wrinckles
             in
             beauty
             is
             a
             grieuous
             fault
             .
          
           
             Penelope
             in
             bowes
             her
             youths
             strength
             tride
             ,
          
           
             Of
             home
             the
             bow
             was
             that
             approu'd
             their
             side
             .
          
           
             Time
             flying
             shides
             hence
             closely
             ,
             and
             deceaues
             vs
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             swift
             horses
             the
             swift
             yeare
             soone
             leaues
             vs.
          
           
             Brasse
             shines
             with
             vse
             ;
             good
             garments
             would
             be
             worne
             ,
          
           
             Houses
             not
             dwelt
             in
             ,
             are
             with
             filch
             forlorne
             .
          
           
             Beauty
             not
             exercisde
             with
             age
             is
             spent
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             one
             or
             two
             men
             are
             sufficiant
             .
          
           
             Many
             to
             rob
             is
             more
             sure
             ,
             and
             l●sse
             hatefull
             ,
          
           
             From
             dog-kept
             flocks
             come
             preys
             to
             woolus
             most
             gratefull
             .
          
           
             Behold
             what
             giues
             the
             Poet
             but
             new
             verses
             ?
          
           
             And
             thereof
             many
             thousand
             he
             rehearses
             .
          
           
             The
             Poets
             God
             arayed
             in
             robes
             of
             gold
             ,
          
           
             Of
             his
             gilt
             Harpe
             the
             well
             tun'd
             strings
             doth
             hold
             .
          
           
           
             Let
             Homer
             yeeld
             to
             such
             as
             presents
             bring
             ,
          
           
             (
             Trust
             me
             )
             to
             giue
             ,
             it
             is
             a
             witty
             thing
             .
          
           
             Nor
             ,
             so
             thou
             maist
             obtaine
             a
             wealthy
             prize
             ,
          
           
             The
             vaine
             name
             of
             inferiour
             slaues
             dispize
             .
          
           
             Nor
             let
             the
             armes
             of
             ancient
             liues
             beguile
             thee
             ,
          
           
             Poore
             louer
             with
             thy
             grandsires
             I
             exile
             thee
             .
          
           
             Who
             seekes
             ,
             for
             being
             faire
             ,
             a
             night
             to
             haue
             ,
          
           
             What
             he
             will
             giue
             ,
             with
             greater
             instance
             craue
             .
          
           
             Make
             a
             small
             price
             ,
             while
             thou
             thy
             nets
             doest
             lay
             ,
          
           
             Least
             they
             should
             fly
             ,
             being
             tane
             ,
             the
             tirant
             play
             .
          
           
             Dissemble
             so
             as
             lou'd
             he
             may
             be
             thought
             ,
          
           
             And
             take
             heed
             ,
             least
             he
             gets
             that
             loue
             for
             nought
             ,
          
           
             Deny
             him
             oft
             ;
             faine
             now
             thy
             head
             doth
             ake
             :
          
           
             And
             Isis
             now
             will
             shew
             what
             scuse
             to
             make
             .
          
           
             Receiue
             him
             soone
             ,
             least
             patient
             vse
             he
             gaine
             ,
          
           
             Or
             least
             his
             loue
             oft
             beaten
             backe
             should
             waine
             .
          
           
             To
             beggers
             shut
             ,
             to
             bringers
             ope
             thy
             gate
             ,
          
           
             Let
             him
             within
             heare
             ;
             bard
             out
             louers
             prate
             .
          
           
             And
             as
             first
             wronged
             the
             wronged
             sometimes
             banish●
          
           
             Thy
             fault
             with
             his
             fault
             so
             rep●ls'd
             will
             vanish
             .
          
           
             But
             neuer
             giue
             a
             spatious
             time
             to
             ire
             ,
          
           
             Anger
             delaide
             doth
             oft
             to
             hate
             retire
             .
          
           
             And
             let
             thine
             eyes
             constrained
             learne
             to
             weepe
             ,
          
           
             That
             this
             ,
             or
             that
             man
             may
             thy
             chcekes
             moist
             keepe
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             ,
             if
             thou
             coznest
             one
             ,
             dread
             to
             forsweare
             ,
          
           
             Venus
             to
             mockt
             men
             lends
             a
             sencelesse
             ●are
             .
          
           
             Se●uauts
             fit
             for
             thy
             purpose
             thou
             must
             hire
             ,
          
           
             To
             teach
             thy
             louer
             ,
             what
             thy
             thoughts
             desire
             .
          
           
             Let
             them
             aske
             some-what
             ,
             many
             asking
             little
             ,
          
           
             Within
             a
             while
             great
             heapes
             grow
             of
             a
             little
             .
          
           
             And
             sister
             ,
             Nurse
             ,
             and
             mother
             spare
             him
             not
             ,
          
           
             By
             many
             hands
             great
             wealth
             is
             quickly
             got
             .
          
           
           
             What
             were
             it
             for
             thee
             to
             require
             a
             gift
             ,
          
           
             By
             keeping
             of
             thy
             birth
             make
             but
             a
             shift
             .
          
           
             Beware
             least
             he
             vnriual'd
             loues
             secure
             ,
          
           
             Take
             strife
             away
             ,
             loue
             doth
             not
             well
             endure
             .
          
           
             On
             all
             the
             beds
             men
             tumbling
             let
             him
             view
             ,
          
           
             And
             thy
             neck
             with
             lasciuions
             marks
             made
             blew
             .
          
           
             Chiefly
             shew
             him
             the
             gifts
             ,
             which
             other
             send
             :
          
           
             If
             he
             giues
             nothing
             ,
             let
             him
             from
             thee
             wend.
          
           
             When
             thou
             hast
             so
             much
             as
             he
             giues
             no
             more
             ,
          
           
             Pray
             him
             to
             lend
             what
             thou
             may'st●●e're
             restore
             .
          
           
             Let
             thy
             tongue
             flatter
             ,
             while
             thy
             minde
             harme-workes
             ,
          
           
             Vnder
             sweet
             hony
             deadly
             poyson
             lurkes
             .
          
           
             If
             this
             thou
             doest
             to
             me
             by
             long
             vse
             knowne
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             let
             my
             word
             be
             with
             the
             windes
             hence
             blowne
             .
          
           
             Oft
             thou
             wile
             ,
             say
             ,
             liue
             well
             ,
             thou
             wilt
             pray
             oft
             ,
          
           
             That
             my
             dead
             bones
             may
             in
             their
             graue
             lie
             soft
             ,
          
           
             As
             thus
             she
             spake
             ,
             my
             shadow
             me
             betraide
             ,
          
           
             with
             much
             a
             do
             my
             hands
             I
             scarsely
             staide
             .
          
           
             But
             let
             ●er
             bleare
             eyes
             ,
             bald
             scalpes
             thine
             hoary
             ●lieces
             ,
          
           
             And
             riueld
             cheekes
             I
             would
             haue
             pul'd
             a
             pieces
             .
          
           
             The
             gods
             send
             thee
             no
             house
             a
             poore
             old
             age
             ,
          
           
             Perpetuall
             thirst
             ,
             and
             winters
             lasting
             rage
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             9.
             
          
           
             Ad
             Attionm
             ,
             amantem
             non
             oportere
             desidiosum
             esse
             ▪
             sicuti
             nec
             militem
             .
          
           
             ALL
             Louers
             warre
             ,
             and
             Cupid
             hath
             his
             tent
             ,
          
           
             At●icke
             ,
             all
             louers
             are
             to
             warre
             farre
             sent
             ,
          
           
             What
             age
             fits
             Mar●
             ,
             with
             Venus
             doth
             agree
             ,
          
           
             ●Tis
             shame
             for
             eld
             in
             warre
             or
             loue
             to
             be
             .
          
           
             What
             yeares
             in
             fo●●diours
             Captain●
             do
             require
             ,
          
           
           
             Those
             in
             their
             louers
             pretty
             may
             des
             desire
             .
          
           
             Both
             of
             them
             watch
             :
             each
             on
             the
             hard
             earth
             sleepes
             :
          
           
             His
             Mistris
             dores
             this
             ;
             that
             his
             Captaines
             keepes
             .
          
           
             Souldiers
             must
             trauaile
             farre
             :
             the
             wench
             forth
             send
          
           
             Her
             valiant
             louer
             followes
             without
             end
             .
          
           
             Mounts
             ,
             and
             raine-doubled
             flouds
             he
             passeth
             ouer
             ,
          
           
             And
             treades
             the
             desert
             snowy
             heapes
             to
             couer
             .
          
           
             Going
             to
             sea
             ,
             East
             windes
             he
             doth
             not
             chi●de
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             to
             hoist
             sayle
             attends
             full
             time
             and
             tyde
             .
          
           
             Who
             but
             a
             souldier
             or
             a
             louer
             is
             bold
             ,
          
           
             To
             suffer
             storme
             mixt
             snowes
             with
             nights
             sharp
             cold
             ?
          
           
             One
             as
             a
             spy
             doth
             to
             his
             enemies
             goe
             ,
          
           
             The
             other
             eyes
             his
             riuall
             as
             his
             foe
             .
          
           
             He
             cities
             great
             ,
             this
             thresholds
             lies
             before
             :
          
           
             This
             breakes
             towne
             gates
             ,
             but
             he
             his
             Mistris
             dore
             .
          
           
             Oft
             to
             inuade
             the
             sleeping
             foe
             t
             is
             good
             ,
          
           
             And
             arm'd
             to
             shed
             vnarmed
             peoples
             blood
             .
          
           
             So
             the
             fierce
             troupes
             of
             
               Thracian
               Rhesus
            
             fell
             ,
          
           
             And
             Captiue
             horses
             bad
             their
             Lord
             fare-well
             .
          
           
             Sooth
             Louers
             watch
             till
             sleep
             the
             husband
             charmes
             ,
          
           
             Who
             slumbring
             ,
             they
             rise
             vp
             in
             swelling
             armes
             .
          
           
             The
             keepers
             hands
             and
             corps-dugard
             to
             passe
             ,
          
           
             The
             souldiours
             ,
             and
             poore
             louers
             worke
             e●●
             was
             .
          
           
             Doubtfull
             is
             warre
             and
             loue
             ,
             the
             vanquisht
             rise
             ,
          
           
             And
             who
             thou
             never
             think'st
             should
             fall
             downe
             lies
             .
          
           
             Therefore
             who
             ere
             loue
             sloatthfulnesse
             doth
             call
             ,
          
           
             Let
             him
             surcease
             :
             loue
             tries
             wit
             best
             of
             all
             .
          
           
             Achilles
             burn'd
             Briseis
             being
             tane
             away
             ,
          
           
             Troianes
             destory
             the
             Greeke
             wealth
             while
             you
             may
             ▪
          
           
             Hector
             to
             armes
             went
             from
             his
             wiues
             embraces
             ,
          
           
             And
             on
             Adromache
             his
             helmet
             laces
             .
          
           
             Great
             Agamemnon
             was
             ,
             men
             say
             amazed
             ,
          
           
           
             O●
             Priams
             loose-trest
             daughter
             when
             he
             gazed
             .
          
           
             Mars
             in
             the
             deede
             the
             black-smiths
             net
             did
             stable
          
           
             In
             heauen
             was
             neuer
             more
             notorious
             fable
             .
          
           
             My selfe
             was
             dull
             ,
             and
             ●aint
             to
             sloth
             inclinde
          
           
             Pleasure
             ,
             and
             case
             had
             mollifide
             my
             minde
             .
          
           
             A
             faire
             maydes
             care
             expeld
             this
             sluggishnesse
             ,
          
           
             And
             to
             her
             tents
             wilde
             me
             my selfe
             addresse
             .
          
           
             Since
             maist
             thou
             se
             me
             watch
             &
             night
             warres
             moue
             ,
          
           
             He
             that
             will
             not
             grow
             slothfull
             let
             him
             loue
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             10.
             
          
           
             Ad
             p●ellam
             ,
             ne
             pro
             amore
             praemia
             poseat
             .
          
           
             SVch
             as
             the
             cause
             was
             of
             two
             husbands
             warre
             ,
             ●
          
           
             Whom
             Troian
             ships
             fetcht
             from●
             Europa
             farre
             .
          
           
             Such
             as
             was
             Leda
             ,
             whom
             the
             God
             deluded
          
           
             In
             snow-white
             plumes
             of
             a
             false
             swanne
             included
             .
          
           
             Such
             as
             Aminione
             through
             the
             drie
             fields
             strayed
             .
          
           
             When
             on
             her
             head
             a
             water
             pitcher
             layed
             .
          
           
             Such
             wert
             thou
             ,
             and
             I
             fear'd
             the
             Bull
             and
             Eagle
             ,
          
           
             And
             what
             ere
             loue
             made
             Io●e
             should
             thee
             inu●agle●
          
           
             Now
             all
             feare
             with
             my
             mindes
             hot
             loue
             abates
             ,
          
           
             No
             more
             this
             beauty
             mine
             eyes
             captiuates
             .
          
           
             Ask'st
             why
             I
             change
             ?
             because
             thou
             crau'st
             reward
             ;
          
           
             This
             cause
             hath
             thee
             from
             pleasing
             me
             debard
             .
          
           
             While
             thou
             wert
             plaine
             I
             lou'dthy
             minde
             and
             fa●e
             :
          
           
             Now
             inward
             faults
             thy
             outward
             forme
             disgrace
             .
          
           
             Loue
             is
             a
             naked
             boy
             ,
             his
             yeares
             saunce
             staine
             ,
          
           
             And
             hath
             no
             cloaths
             ,
             but
             open
             doth
             remaine
             .
          
           
             Will
             you
             for
             gaine
             haue
             Cupid
             sell
             himselfe
             ?
          
           
             He
             hath
             no
             bosome
             ,
             where
             to
             hide
             base
             pelfe
             .
          
           
             Loue
             and
             Loues
             sonne
             are
             with
             firce
             armes
             to
             oddes●
          
           
           
             To
             serue
             for
             pay
             beseemes
             not
             wanton
             gods
             ,
          
           
             The
             whore
             stands
             to
             be
             bought
             for
             each
             mans
             mony
             ,
          
           
             And
             seekes
             vild
             wealth
             by
             selling
             of
             her
             Cony
             .
          
           
             Yet
             greedy
             bawdes
             command
             she
             curseth
             still
             ,
          
           
             And
             doth
             constraind
             ,
             what
             you
             do
             of
             good
             will.
          
           
             Take
             from
             irrationall
             beasts
             a
             president
             ,
          
           
             'T
             is
             shame
             their
             witts
             should
             be
             more
             excelent
             .
          
           
             The
             Mare
             askes
             not
             the
             horse
             ,
             the
             cow
             the
             bull
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             the
             milde
             ewe
             gifts
             from
             the
             ramme
             doth
             pull
             .
          
           
             Onely
             a
             woman
             gets
             spoyle
             from
             a
             man
          
           
             Farmes
             out
             her selfe
             on
             nights
             for
             what
             she
             can
             .
          
           
             And
             lets
             what
             both
             delight
             ,
             what
             both
             desire
             ,
          
           
             Making
             her
             ioy
             according
             to
             her
             hire
             .
          
           
             The
             sport
             being
             such
             ,
             as
             both
             alike
             sweet
             try
             it
          
           
             Why
             should
             one
             sell
             it
             and
             the
             other
             buy
             it
             .
          
           
             Why
             should
             I
             loose
             ,
             and
             thou
             gaine
             by
             the
             pleasure
             ,
          
           
             Which
             man
             and
             woman
             reape
             in
             equall
             measure
             ?
          
           
             Knights
             of
             the
             post
             of
             periuries
             make
             saile
          
           
             The
             vniust
             Iudge
             for
             bribes
             becomes
             a
             stale
             .
          
           
             'T
             is
             shame
             sould
             tongues
             the
             guilty
             should
             defend
          
           
             Or
             great
             wealth
             from
             a
             iudgment
             seat
             ascend
             .
          
           
             'T
             is
             shame
             to
             grow
             rich
             by
             bed
             marchandize
             ,
          
           
             Or
             prostitute
             thy
             beauty
             for
             bad
             prize
             .
          
           
             Thankes
             worthely
             are
             due
             for
             things
             vnbought
             ,
          
           
             For
             beds
             ill
             hyr'd
             we
             are
             indebted
             nought
             .
          
           
             The
             hirer
             payeth
             al
             ,
             his
             rent
             discharg'd
          
           
             From
             further
             duty
             he
             rests
             then
             inlarg'd
          
           
             Faire
             Dames
             forbeare
             rewards
             for
             nights
             to
             craue
          
           
             Ill
             gotten
             goods
             good
             end
             will
             neuer
             haue
             .
          
           
             The
             Sabine
             gauntlets
             were
             too
             deerely
             wunne
             ,
          
           
             That
             vnto
             death
             did
             presse
             the
             holy
             Nunne
             .
          
           
             The
             sonne
             slew
             her
             ,
             that
             forth
             to
             meete
             him
             went
             ,
          
           
           
             And
             a
             rich
             neck-lace
             caus'd
             that
             punishment
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             thinke
             no
             scorne
             to
             aske
             a
             wealthy
             churle
             ,
          
           
             He
             wants
             no
             gifts
             into
             thy
             lap
             to
             hurle
             .
          
           
             Take
             clustred
             grapes
             from
             an
             ore-laden
             vine
             ,
          
           
             Many
             bounteous
             loue
             Alcinous
             fruite
             resigne
             .
          
           
             Let
             poore
             men
             shew
             their
             seruice
             ;
             faith
             and
             care
          
           
             All
             for
             their
             Mistresse
             ,
             what
             they
             haue
             ,
             prepare
             ,
          
           
             In
             verse
             to
             prepare
             kinde
             Wenches
             t'
             is
             my
             part
             ,
          
           
             And
             whom
             I
             like
             eternize
             by
             mine
             art
             .
          
           
             Garments
             do
             weare
             ,
             iewells
             and
             gold
             do
             wast
             ,
          
           
             The
             fame
             that
             verse
             giues
             doth
             for
             euer
             last
             .
          
           
             To
             giue
             I
             loue
             ,
             but
             to
             be
             ask't
             disdayne
             ,
          
           
             Leaue
             asking
             ,
             and
             I
             'le
             giue
             what
             I
             refraine
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             11.
             
          
           
             Napen
             alloquitur
             ,
             vt
             paratas
             tabellas
             ad
             Cori●nam
             perferat
             .
          
           
             IN
             skilfull
             gathering
             ruffled
             haires
             in
             order
             ,
          
           
             Nape
             free-borne
             whose
             cunning
             hath
             no
             border
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             seruice
             for
             nights
             scapes
             is
             knowne
             commodious
             ,
          
           
             And
             to
             giue
             sighes
             dull
             wit
             is
             odious
             ▪
          
           
             Corinna
             clips
             me
             oft
             by
             thy
             perswasion
             ,
          
           
             Neuer
             to
             harme
             me
             made
             thy
             faith
             ●uasion
             .
          
           
             Receiue
             these
             lines
             ,
             them
             to
             my
             Mistresse
             carry
             ,
          
           
             Be
             sedulous
             ,
             let
             no
             stay
             cause
             thee
             tarry
             ▪
          
           
             Nor
             flint
             ,
             nor
             iron
             ,
             are
             in
             thy
             soft
             brest
             ,
          
           
             But
             pure
             simplicity
             in
             thee
             doth
             rest
             .
          
           
             And
             t'
             is
             suppos'd
             loues
             bow
             hath
             wounded
             thee
             ,
          
           
             Defend
             the
             ensignes
             of
             thy
             warre
             in
             me
             .
          
           
             If
             what
             I
             do
             ,
             she
             askes
             ,
             say
             hope
             for
             night
             ,
          
           
             The
             rest
             my
             hand
             doth
             in
             my
             letters
             write
             .
          
           
           
             Time
             passeth
             while
             I
             speake
             ,
             giue
             her
             my
             writ●
          
           
             But
             see
             that
             forth-with
             shee
             peruseth
             it
             .
          
           
             I
             charge
             thee
             marke
             her
             eyes
             and
             front
             in
             reading
          
           
             By
             speechlesse
             lookes
             we
             guesse
             at
             things
             succeeding
             .
          
           
             Straight
             being
             read
             ,
             will
             her
             to
             write
             much
             back
             ,
          
           
             I
             hate
             faire
             Paper
             should
             writte
             matter
             lack
             .
          
           
             Let
             her
             make
             verses
             ,
             and
             some
             blotted
             letter
             ,
          
           
             On
             the
             last
             edge
             to
             stay
             mine
             eyes
             the
             better
             .
          
           
             What
             need
             she
             try
             her
             hand
             to
             hold
             the
             quill
          
           
             Let
             this
             word
             ,
             come
             ,
             alone
             the
             tables
             fill
             .
          
           
             Then
             with
             triumphant
             laurell
             will
             I
             grace
             them
             ▪
          
           
             And
             in
             the
             midst
             of
             Venus
             temple
             place
             them
             .
          
           
             Subscribing
             that
             to
             her
             I
             consecrate
             ,
          
           
             My
             faithfull
             tables
             being
             vile
             maple
             late
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             12.
             
          
           
             Tabelias
             quas
             miscrat
             exeoratur
             quod
             amica
             noctem
             negabat
             .
          
           
             BEwa●le
             my
             chaunce
             the
             sad
             booke
             is
             returned
             ,
          
           
             This
             day
             denyall
             hath
             my
             sport
             adiourned
             .
          
           
             Presages
             are
             not
             vaine
             ,
             when
             she
             departed
             ,
          
           
             Nape
             by
             stumbling
             on
             the
             thre-shold
             started
             .
          
           
             Going
             out
             againe
             passe
             forth
             the
             dore
             most
             wisely
             ,
          
           
             And
             som-what
             higher
             beare
             thy
             foote
             precisely
             .
          
           
             Hence
             luck-lesse
             tables
             ,
             funerall
             wood
             be
             flying
             ,
          
           
             And
             thou
             the
             waxe
             stufe
             full
             with
             notes
             denying
             .
          
           
             Which
             I
             thinke
             gather'd
             from
             cold
             hemlocks
             flower
             ,
          
           
             Wherein
             bad
             hony
             Corsick
             Bees
             did
             power
             .
          
           
             Yet
             as
             if
             mixt
             with
             red
             lead
             thou
             wert
             ruddy
             ,
          
           
             That
             colour
             rightly
             did
             appeare
             so
             bloudy
             .
          
           
             As
             euill
             wood
             throwne
             in
             the
             high-wayes
             lie
             ▪
          
           
           
             Be
             bro●ke
             with
             wheeles
             of
             chariots
             passing
             by
             .
          
           
             And
             him
             that
             hew'd
             you
             out
             for
             needfull
             vses
             ,
          
           
             I
             'le
             prooue
             had
             hands
             impure
             with
             all
             abuses
             .
          
           
             Poore
             wretches
             on
             the
             tree
             themselues
             did
             strangle
          
           
             There
             sat
             the
             hang-man
             for
             mens
             necks
             to
             angle
             .
          
           
             To
             hoarse
             scrich-owles
             fowle
             shado●ves
             it
             allowes
          
           
             Vultures
             and
             furies
             nestled
             in
             the
             boughs
             .
          
           
             To
             these
             my
             loue
             I
             foolishly
             committed
          
           
             And
             then
             with
             sweete
             words
             to
             my
             Mistrisse
             fitted●
          
           
             More
             fitly
             had
             thy
             wrangling
             bonds
             contained
          
           
             From
             barbarous
             lips
             of
             some
             Atturny
             strained
             .
          
           
             Among
             day-bookes
             and
             bills
             they
             had
             layne
             better
             ,
          
           
             In
             which
             the
             Marchat
             wayles
             his
             banquerout
             debter
             ,
          
           
             Your
             name
             approoues
             you
             made
             for
             such
             like
             things
          
           
             The
             number
             two
             no
             good
             diuining
             bringes
             .
          
           
             Angry
             ,
             I
             pray
             that
             rotten
             age
             you
             wrackes
          
           
             And
             sluttish
             white-mould
             ouergrow
             the
             waxe
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             13.
             
          
           
             Ad
             Aurorem
             ne
             properet
             .
          
           
             NOw
             ore
             the
             sea
             from
             her
             old
             Loue
             comes
             she
          
           
             That
             drawes
             the
             day
             from
             heauens
             cold
             axeltr●●
             .
          
           
             Aurora
             whither
             ●●dest
             thou
             ?
             downe
             againe
          
           
             And
             birds
             from
             Memnon
             yearely
             shal
             be
             slayne
             .
          
           
             Now
             in
             her
             tender
             armes
             I
             sweetely
             bide
          
           
             If
             euer
             ,
             now
             well
             lyes
             she
             by
             my
             fide
             .
          
           
             The
             aire
             is
             cold
             ,
             and
             sleepe
             is
             sweetest
             now
          
           
             And
             birds
             send
             forth
             shrill
             notes
             from
             euery
             bough
             ,
          
           
             Whether
             run'st
             thou
             ,
             that
             men
             ,
             and
             women
             loue
             not
          
           
             Hold
             in
             thy
             rosy
             horses
             that
             they
             moue
             not
             ?
          
           
             Fire
             thou
             rise
             ,
             starres
             teach
             sea-men
             where
             to
             saile
          
           
           
             But
             when
             thou
             commest
             they
             of
             their
             courses
             faile
             .
          
           
             Poore
             trauailers
             though
             tired
             ,
             rise
             at
             thy
             sight
             ,
          
           
             And
             souldiers
             make
             them
             ready
             to
             the
             fight
             .
          
           
             The
             painefull
             hinde
             by
             thee
             to
             field
             is
             sent
             ,
          
           
             Slowe
             Oxen
             early
             in
             the
             yoake
             are
             pent
             .
          
           
             Thou
             cousenst
             boyes
             of
             sleepe
             ,
             and
             doest
             betray
             them
          
           
             To
             Pedants
             that
             with
             cruell
             lashes
             pay
             them
             .
          
           
             Thou
             mak'st
             the
             surety
             to
             the
             Lawyer
             runne
             ,
          
           
             That
             with
             one
             word
             hath
             night
             himselfe
             vndone
             .
          
           
             The
             Lawyer
             and
             the
             Client
             hate
             thy
             view
             ,
          
           
             Both
             whom
             thou
             raisest
             vp
             to
             toyle
             anew
             .
          
           
             By
             thy
             meanes
             women
             of
             their
             rest
             are
             bard
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             setst
             their
             labouring
             hands
             to
             spin
             and
             card
             .
          
           
             All
             could
             I
             beare
             ,
             but
             that
             the
             wench
             should
             rise
             ,
          
           
             Who
             can
             endure
             saue
             him
             with
             whom
             none
             lyes
             ?
          
           
             How
             oft
             wisht
             I
             ,
             night
             would
             not
             giue
             thee
             place
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             morning
             starres
             shunne
             thy
             vprising
             face
             .
          
           
             How
             oft
             that
             either
             winde
             would
             breake
             thy
             coach
             ,
          
           
             Or
             steeds
             might
             fall
             forc'd
             with
             thicke
             clouds
             approach
             .
          
           
             Whether
             goest
             thou
             hatefull
             Nymph
             ?
             Memnon
             the
             el●e
          
           
             Receiu'd
             his
             cole-blacke
             colour
             from
             thy selfe
             .
          
           
             Say
             that
             thy
             loue
             with
             Caephalus
             were
             not
             knowne
             ,
          
           
             Then
             thinkest
             thou
             thy
             loose
             life
             is
             not
             showne
             .
          
           
             Would
             Tithon
             might
             but
             talke
             of
             thee
             a
             while
             .
          
           
             Not
             one
             in
             heauen
             should
             be
             more
             base
             and
             vile
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             leauest
             his
             bed
             ,
             because
             he
             's
             fain●
             through
             age
             ,
          
           
             And
             early
             mountest
             thy
             hatefull
             carriage
             ,
          
           
             But
             heldst
             thou
             in
             thine
             armes
             some
             Caephalus
             ,
          
           
             Then
             wouldst
             thou
             cry
             ,
             stay
             night
             and
             run
             not
             thus
             .
          
           
             Doest
             punish
             me
             ,
             because
             yeares
             make
             him
             waine
             ,
          
           
             I
             did
             not
             bid
             thee
             wed
             an
             aged
             swaine
             ?
          
           
             The
             Moone
             sleepes
             with
             Endy●●ton
             euery
             day
             ,
          
           
           
             Thou
             art
             as
             faire
             as
             she
             ,
             then
             kisse
             and
             play
             .
          
           
             Ioue
             that
             thou
             should'st
             not
             hast
             but
             waite
             his
             leasure
             ,
          
           
             Made
             two
             nights
             one
             to
             finish
             vp
             his
             pleasure
             .
          
           
             I
             chide
             no
             more
             ,
             she
             blusht
             and
             therefore
             heard
             me
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             lingered
             not
             the
             day
             ,
             but
             morning
             scard
             me
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             14.
             
          
           
             Puellam
             consolatur
             cuiprae
             nimia
             cura
             comae
             desiderant
             .
          
           
             LEaue
             colouring
             thy
             tresses
             I
             did
             cry
             ,
          
           
             Now
             hast
             thou
             left
             no
             haires
             at
             all
             to
             die
             .
          
           
             But
             what
             had
             bin
             more
             faire
             had
             they
             bin
             kept
             ?
          
           
             Beyond
             thy
             robes
             thy
             dangling
             lackes
             had
             swept
             .
          
           
             Feard'st
             thou
             to
             dresse
             them
             being
             fine
             and
             thinne
             ,
          
           
             Like
             to
             the
             silke
             the
             curious
             Seres
             spinne
             .
          
           
             Or
             thrids
             which
             spiders
             slender
             foore
             drawes
             out
             ,
          
           
             Fastning
             her
             light
             web
             some
             old
             beame
             about
             .
          
           
             Not
             black
             ,
             nor
             golden
             were
             they
             to
             our
             view
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             although
             either
             mixt
             of
             eithers
             hue
             .
          
           
             Such
             as
             in
             hilly
             Idas
             watry
             plaines
             ,
          
           
             The
             Cedar
             tall
             spoyl'd
             of
             his
             bark
             retaines
             .
          
           
             And
             they
             were
             apt
             to
             curle
             an
             hundred
             wayes
             ,
          
           
             And
             did
             to
             thee
             no
             cause
             of
             dolour
             rayse
             .
          
           
             Nor
             hath
             the
             needle
             ,
             or
             the
             combes
             teeth
             re●t
             them
             ,
          
           
             The
             maide
             that
             kembd
             them
             euer
             safely
             left
             them
             .
          
           
             Oft
             was
             she
             drest
             before
             mine
             eyes
             ,
             yet
             neuer
             ,
          
           
             Snatching
             the
             combe
             ,
             to
             bea●e
             the
             wench
             out
             driue
             her
             .
          
           
             Oft
             in
             the
             morne
             her
             haires
             not
             yet
             digested
             ,
          
           
             Halfe
             sleeping
             on
             a
             purple
             bed
             she
             rested
             .
          
           
             Yet
             seemely
             like
             a
             
               Thracian
               Bacchinall
            
             ,
          
           
             That
             tyr'd
             doth
             rashly
             on
             the
             greene
             grasse
             fall
             .
          
           
           
             When
             they
             were
             slender
             ,
             and
             like
             downy
             mosse
             ,
          
           
             They
             troubled
             haires
             ,
             alas
             ,
             endur'd
             great
             losse
             .
          
           
             How
             patiently
             hot
             irons
             they
             did
             take
             ,
          
           
             In
             crooked
             trannells
             crispy
             curles
             to
             make
             .
          
           
             I
             cryed
             ,
             't
             is
             sinne
             ,
             't
             is
             sinne
             ,
             these
             haires
             to
             burne
             ,
          
           
             They
             well
             become
             thee
             ,
             then
             to
             spare
             them
             turne
             .
          
           
             Farre
             off
             be
             force
             ,
             no
             fire
             to
             them
             may
             reach
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             very
             haires
             will
             the
             hot
             bodkin
             ●each
             .
          
           
             Lost
             are
             the
             goodly
             lockes
             ,
             which
             from
             their
             crowne
             ,
          
           
             Phoebus
             and
             Bacchus
             wisht
             were
             hanging
             downe
             .
          
           
             Such
             were
             they
             as
             Dia●a
             painted
             stands
             ,
          
           
             All
             naked
             holding
             in
             her
             waue-moist
             hands
             .
          
           
             Why
             doest
             thy
             ill
             kembd
             tresses
             losse
             lament
             ?
          
           
             Why
             in
             thy
             glasse
             doest●looke
             being
             discontent
             ?
          
           
             Be
             not
             to
             see
             with
             wonted
             eyes
             inclinde
             ,
          
           
             To
             please
             thy selfe
             ,
             thy selfe
             put
             out
             of
             minde
             .
          
           
             No
             charmed
             herbes
             of
             any
             harlot
             skath'd
             thee
             ,
          
           
             No
             fai●hlesse
             witch
             in
             Thessale
             waters
             bath'd
             thee
             .
          
           
             No
             sicknesse
             harm'd
             thee
             ,
             farre
             be
             that
             away
             ,
          
           
             No
             enuious
             tongue
             wrought
             thy
             thick
             lockes
             decay
             .
          
           
             By
             thine
             owne
             hand
             and
             fault
             thy
             hurt
             doth
             grow
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             mad'st
             thy
             head
             with
             compound
             poyson
             flow
             .
          
           
             Now
             Germany
             shall
             captiue
             haire-tyers
             send
             thee
             ,
          
           
             And
             vanqnisht
             people
             curious
             dressings
             lend
             thee
             .
          
           
             Which
             some
             admiring
             O
             thou
             oft
             wilt
             blush
             ,
          
           
             And
             say
             he
             likes
             me
             for
             my
             borrowed
             bush
             .
          
           
             Praysing
             for
             me
             some
             vnknowne
             Guelder
             dame
             ,
          
           
             But
             I
             remember
             when
             it
             was
             my
             fame
             .
          
           
             Alas
             she
             almost
             weepes
             ,
             and
             her
             white
             cheekes
             ,
          
           
             Died
             red
             with
             shame
             to
             hide
             from
             shame
             she
             seekes
             .
          
           
             She
             holds
             ,
             and
             viewes
             her
             old
             lockes
             in
             her
             lappe
             ,
          
           
             Aye
             me
             rare
             gifts
             vnworthy
             such
             a
             happe
             .
          
           
           
             Cheere
             vp
             thy selfe
             ,
             thy
             losse
             thou
             maiest
             repaire
             ,
          
           
             And
             be
             hereafter
             seene
             with
             natiue
             haire
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             15.
             
          
           
             Ad●inuidos
             ,
             quod
             fama
             poetarum
             sit
             perennis
             .
          
           
             ENuie
             why
             carpest
             thou
             my
             time
             is
             spent
             so
             ill
             ,
          
           
             And
             termst
             my
             workes
             fruites
             of
             an
             idle
             quill
             .
          
           
             Or
             that
             vnlike
             the
             line
             from
             whence
             I
             come
             ,
          
           
             Warres
             rusty
             honours
             are
             refus'd
             being
             young
             .
          
           
             Nor
             that
             I
             study
             not
             the
             brawling
             Lawes
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             set
             my
             voyce
             to
             sale
             in
             euery
             cause
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             scope
             is
             mortall
             ,
             mine
             eternal
             fame
             ,
          
           
             That
             all
             the
             World
             may
             euer
             chaunt
             thy
             name
             .
          
           
             Homer
             shall
             liue
             while
             Tenedos
             stands
             and
             Ide
             ,
          
           
             Or
             into
             Sea
             swift
             Symois
             doth
             slide
             .
          
           
             Ascraus
             liues
             ,
             while
             grapes
             with
             new
             wine
             swel
             ,
          
           
             Or
             men
             with
             crooked
             sickles
             corne
             downe
             fel.
          
           
             The
             World
             shal
             of
             Callamichus
             euer
             speake
             ,
          
           
             His
             Arte
             exceld
             ,
             although
             his
             wit
             was
             weake
             .
          
           
             For
             euer
             lasts
             high
             Sophocles
             proud
             vaine
             ,
          
           
             With
             Sunne
             and
             Moone
             ,
             Aratus
             shall
             remaine
             .
          
           
             While
             bond-men
             cheate
             ,
             fathers
             hoord
             ,
             bawds
             whorish
             ,
          
           
             And
             strumpets
             flatter
             ,
             shal
             Menandor
             flourish
             .
          
           
             Rude
             Ennius●
             and
             Plautus
             full
             of
             wit
             ,
          
           
             Are
             both
             in
             fames
             eternal
             Legend
             writ
             .
          
           
             What
             age
             of
             Varroes
             name
             shal
             not
             be
             told
             ,
          
           
             And
             
               Iasons
               Argos
            
             and
             the
             fleece
             of
             gold
             ,
          
           
             Lo●ty
             Luereticus
             shall
             liue
             that
             houre
             ,
          
           
             That
             nature
             shal
             dissolue
             this
             earthly
             bower
             .
          
           
             Aeneas
             warre
             ,
             and
             Tityrus
             shall
             be
             read
             ,
          
           
             While
             Rome
             of
             all
             the
             conquered
             world
             is
             head
             ,
          
           
           
             Till
             Cupids
             Bowe
             and
             fiery
             Shafts
             be
             broken
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             verses
             sweet
             Tybullus
             shall
             be
             spoken
             .
          
           
             And
             Gallus
             shall
             be
             knowne
             from
             East
             to
             VVest
             ,
          
           
             So
             shall
             Lycoris
             whom
             hee
             loued
             best
             .
          
           
             Therefore
             when
             Flint
             and
             Iron
             weare
             away
             ,
          
           
             Verse
             is
             immortall
             ,
             and
             shal
             nere
             decay
             .
          
           
             To
             Verse
             let
             Kings
             giue
             place
             ,
             and
             Kingly
             showes
             ,
          
           
             And
             banks
             ore
             which
             gold-bearing
             Tagus
             flowes
             .
          
           
             Let
             base
             conceited
             witts
             admire
             vilde
             things
             ,
          
           
             Faire
             Phoebus
             lead
             me
             to
             the
             Muses
             springs
             .
          
           
             About
             my
             head
             be
             quiuering
             mi●tle
             wound
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             sad
             Louers
             heads
             let
             me
             be
             found
             .
          
           
             The
             Liuing
             ,
             not
             the
             Dead
             can
             cauy
             bite
             ,
          
           
             For
             after
             Death
             all
             men
             receiue
             their
             right
             .
          
           
             Then
             though
             Death
             rakes
             my
             bones
             in
             funeral
             fire
             ,
          
           
             I
             le
             liue
             ,
             and
             as
             he
             puls
             me
             downe
             mount
             higher
             .
          
        
         
           
             The
             same
             by
             B.
             I.
             
          
           
             ENuie
             ,
             why
             twitst
             thou
             me
             ,
             my
             time
             's
             spent
             ill
             ?
          
           
             And
             call'st
             my
             verse
             fruites
             of
             an
             idle
             quil
             ?
          
           
             Or
             that
             (
             vnlike
             the
             line
             from
             whence
             I
             sprong
             )
          
           
             VVars
             dusty
             honors
             I
             pursue
             not
             young
             ?
          
           
             Or
             that
             I
             study
             not
             the
             tedious
             Lawes
             ;
          
           
             And
             prostitute
             my
             voyce
             in
             euery
             cause
             ?
          
           
             Thy
             scope
             is
             mortal
             ;
             mine
             eternal
             Fame
             ,
          
           
             VVhich
             through
             the
             world
             shal
             euer
             chaunt
             my
             name
             .
          
           
             Homer
             wil
             liue
             ,
             whilst
             Tenedos
             stands
             ,
             and
             I
             de
             ,
          
           
             Or
             to
             the
             Sea
             ,
             fleete
             Symois
             doth
             slide
             :
          
           
             And
             so
             shall
             Hesiod
             too
             ,
             while
             vines
             do
             beare
             ,
          
           
             Or
             crooked
             sickles
             crop
             the
             ripened
             care
             ,
          
           
             
               Call●●maehus
               ▪
            
             though
             in
             Inuention
             lowe
             ,
          
           
           
             Shall
             still
             be
             sung
             ,
             since
             he
             in
             Art
             doth
             flow
             .
          
           
             No
             losse
             shall
             come
             to
             Sophocles
             proude
             vaine
             ,
          
           
             With
             Sunne
             and
             Moone
             Aratus
             shall
             remaine
             .
          
           
             Whil'st
             Slaues
             be
             false
             ,
             Fathers
             hard
             ,
             &
             Ba●ds
             be
             w●orish
             ,
          
           
             VVhil'st
             Harlots
             flatter
             ,
             shall
             Menander
             florish
             .
          
           
             En●ius
             ,
             though
             rude
             ,
             and
             Accius
             high-reard
             straine
             ,
          
           
             A
             fresh
             applause
             in
             euery
             age
             shall
             gaine
             ,
          
           
             Of
             Varro's
             name
             ,
             what
             eare
             shall
             not
             be
             told
             ?
          
           
             Of
             
               Iasons
               Argo
            
             ?
             and
             the
             Fleece
             of
             gold
             ?
          
           
             Then
             ,
             shall
             Lucretius
             lofty
             numbers
             die
             ,
          
           
             VVhen
             Earth
             ,
             and
             Seas
             in
             fire
             and
             flames
             shall
             frie.
          
           
             Titirus
             ,
             Tillage
             ,
             Aeney
             shall
             be
             read
             ,
          
           
             Whil'st
             Rome
             of
             all
             the
             conquer'd
             world
             is
             head
             ,
          
           
             Till
             Cupids
             fires
             be
             out
             ,
             and
             his
             bow
             broken
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             verses
             (
             neate
             Tibullus
             )
             shall
             be
             spoken
             .
          
           
             Our
             Gallus
             shall
             be
             knowne
             from
             East
             to
             west
             ,
          
           
             So
             shall
             Licoris
             ,
             whom
             he
             now
             loues
             best
             .
          
           
             The
             suffering
             Plough-share
             or
             the
             flint
             may
             weare
             ,
          
           
             But
             heauenly
             Poesie
             no
             death
             can
             feare
             .
          
           
             Kings
             shall
             giue
             place
             to
             it
             ,
             and
             Kingly
             showes
             ,
          
           
             The
             bankes
             ore
             which
             gold-beating
             Tagus
             flowes
             .
          
           
             Kneele
             hindes
             to
             trash
             :
             me
             let
             bright
             Phoebus
             swell
             ,
          
           
             With
             cups
             full
             flowing
             from
             the
             Muses
             well
             .
          
           
             The
             frost-drad
             mirtle
             shall
             impale
             my
             head
             ,
          
           
             And
             of
             sad
             louers
             I
             'le
             be
             often
             read
             .
          
           
             
               Enuy
               the
               liuing
               ,
               not
               the
               dead
               doth
               bite
               ,
            
             
               for
               after
               death
               all
               men
               receiue
               their
               right
               .
            
          
           
             Then
             when
             this
             body
             falls
             in
             funerall
             fire
             ,
          
           
             My
             name
             shall
             liue
             ,
             and
             my
             best
             part
             aspire
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           P.
           Ouidij
           Nasonis
           Amorum
           Liber
           Secundus
           .
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             1.
             
          
           
             Quod
             pro
             gigantomachia
             amores
             scriber●
             sit
             coactus
             .
          
           
             I
             Ouid
             Poet
             of
             thy
             wantonnesse
             ,
          
           
             Borne
             at
             Peligny
             to
             write
             more
             addresse
             .
          
           
             So
             Cupid
             wills
             ,
             farre
             hence
             be
             the
             seuere
             ,
          
           
             You
             are
             vnapt
             my
             looser
             lines
             to
             heare
             .
          
           
             Let
             Maydes
             whom
             hot
             desire
             to
             husbands
             leade
             ,
          
           
             And
             rude
             boyes
             toucht
             with
             vnknowne
             loue
             me
             reade
             .
          
           
             That
             some
             youth
             hurt
             as
             I
             am
             with
             loues
             bow
             ,
          
           
             His
             owne
             flames
             best
             acquainted
             signes
             may
             know
             .
          
           
             And
             long
             admiting
             say
             by
             what
             meanes
             learn'd
             ,
          
           
             Hath
             this
             same
             Poet
             my
             ●a●
             chaunce
             discern'd
             ?
          
           
             I
             durst
             the
             great
             celestiall
             battels
             tell
             ,
          
           
             Hundred-hand
             Gyges
             ,
             and
             had
             done
             it
             well
             .
          
           
             With
             earths
             reuenge
             and
             how
             Olimpus
             toppe
             ,
          
           
             High
             Ossa
             bore
             mount
             Peli●●
             vp
             to
             proppe
             ,
          
           
             Ioue
             and
             Ioues
             thunder-bolts
             I
             had
             in
             hand
             ,
          
           
             Which
             for
             his
             heauen
             fell
             on
             the
             Gyants
             band
             .
          
           
             My
             wench
             ●●ef-dore
             shut
             ,
             loues
             affares
             I
             left
             ,
          
           
             Euen
             Ioue
             himselfe
             out
             off
             my
             wit
             was
             rest
             .
          
           
             Pardon
             me
             Ioue
             ,
             thy
             weapons
             ayde
             me
             nought
             ,
          
           
             Her
             shut
             gates
             greater
             lightning
             then
             thine
             brought
             .
          
           
             Toyes
             ,
             and
             light
             Elegies
             my
             darts
             I
             tooke
             ,
          
           
             Quickly
             soft
             words
             hard
             dores
             wide
             open
             strooke
             ▪
          
           
             Verses
             reduce
             the
             horned
             bloudy
             moone
             ,
          
           
             And
             call
             the
             sunnes
             white
             horses
             black
             at
             noone
             .
          
           
           
             Snakes
             leape
             by
             verse
             from
             caues
             of
             broken
             mountaines
             ,
          
           
             And
             turned
             streames
             run
             backe-ward
             to
             their
             fountaines
             .
          
           
             Verses
             ope
             doores
             ,
             and
             lockes
             put
             in
             the
             poast
          
           
             Although
             of
             Oke
             ,
             to
             yeeld
             to
             verses
             boast
             ;
          
           
             What
             helpes
             it
             me
             of
             fierce
             Achill
             to
             sing
             ?
          
           
             VVhat
             good
             to
             me
             wil
             eyther
             Aiax
             bring
             ?
          
           
             Or
             he
             who
             war'd
             and
             wandred
             twenty
             yeare
             ?
          
           
             Or
             woful
             Hector
             whom
             wild
             iades
             did
             teare
             ?
          
           
             But
             when
             I
             prayse
             a
             pretty
             wenches
             face
          
           
             She
             in
             requital
             doth
             me
             oft
             imbrace
             .
          
           
             A
             great
             reward
             :
             Heroes
             oh
             famous
             names
          
           
             Farewel
             ,
             your
             fauour
             nought
             my
             minde
             inflames
             .
          
           
             VVenches
             apply
             your
             faire
             lookes
             to
             my
             verse
             ,
          
           
             VVhich
             golden
             loue
             doth
             vnto
             me
             rehearse
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             2.
             
          
           
             Ad
             Bagoum
             ,
             vt
             custodiam
             puellae
             sibi
             commissa
             Laxiorem
             habeat
             .
          
           
             BAgous
             whose
             care
             doth
             thy
             Mistresse
             bridle
             ,
          
           
             VVhile
             I
             speake
             some
             few
             ,
             yet
             fit
             words
             be
             idle
             .
          
           
             I
             saw
             the
             Damsell
             walking
             yesterday
          
           
             There
             where
             the
             porch
             doth
             Danaus
             fact
             display
             :
          
           
             Shee
             pleas'd
             me
             soone
             ,
             I
             sent
             ,
             and
             did
             her
             woo
             ,
          
           
             Her
             trembling
             hand
             writ
             backe
             she
             might
             not
             doo
             .
          
           
             And
             asking
             why
             ,
             this
             answere
             she
             redoubied
          
           
             Because
             they
             care
             too
             much
             thy
             mistresse
             troubled
             .
          
           
             Keeper
             if
             thou
             be
             wise
             cease
             hate
             to
             cherish
             ,
          
           
             Beleeue
             me
             ,
             whom
             we
             feare
             ,
             we
             wish
             to
             perish
          
           
             Nor
             is
             her
             husband
             wife
             ,
             that
             needes
             defence
          
           
             VVhen
             vn-protested
             there
             is
             no
             expence
          
           
             But
             furiously
             he
             follow
             his
             loues
             fire
             ,
          
           
           
             And
             thinke
             her
             chast
             whom
             many
             doe
             desire
             :
          
           
             Stolne
             liberty
             she
             may
             be
             thee
             obtaine
          
           
             Which
             giuing
             her
             ,
             she
             may
             giue
             thee
             againe
             :
          
           
             Wilt
             thou
             her
             fault
             learne
             ,
             she
             may
             make
             thee
             tremble
          
           
             Feare
             to
             be
             guilty
             ,
             then
             thou
             maiest
             dissemble
             .
          
           
             Thinke
             when
             she
             reades
             ,
             her
             mother
             letters
             sent
             her
          
           
             Let
             him
             goe
             forth
             knowne
             ,
             that
             vnknowne
             did
             enter
             .
          
           
             Let
             him
             goe
             see
             her
             though
             she
             doe
             not
             languish
          
           
             And
             then
             report
             her
             sicke
             and
             full
             of
             anguish
             .
          
           
             If
             long
             she
             stayes
             to
             thinke
             the
             time
             more
             short
          
           
             Lay
             downe
             thy
             forehead
             in
             thy
             lap
             to
             s●ort
             .
          
           
             Enquire
             not
             what
             with
             Isis
             may
             be
             done
          
           
             Nor
             feare
             least
             she
             to
             th'
             theater's
             r●●●e
             .
          
           
             Knowing
             her
             scapes
             thine
             honour
             shall
             encrease
             ,
          
           
             And
             what
             lesse
             labour
             then
             to
             hold
             thy
             peace
             ?
          
           
             Let
             him
             please
             ,
             haunt
             thy
             house
             ,
             be
             kindly
             vs'd
          
           
             Enioy
             the
             wench
             ,
             let
             all
             else
             be
             refus'd
             .
          
           
             Vaine
             canses
             faine
             of
             him
             ,
             the
             true
             to
             hide
          
           
             And
             what
             she
             likes
             ,
             let
             both
             hold
             ratifide
             .
          
           
             When
             most
             her
             husband
             bends
             the
             browes
             and
             frownes
             ,
          
           
             His
             ●awning
             wench
             with
             her
             desire
             he
             crownes
             .
          
           
             But
             yet
             sometimes
             to
             chide
             thee
             let
             her
             fall
          
           
             Counterfet
             teares
             :
             and
             thee
             lewd
             hangman
             call
             .
          
           
             Obiect
             thou
             then
             what
             she
             may
             well
             excuse
             .
          
           
             To
             staine
             all
             faith
             in
             truth
             ,
             by
             false
             crimes
             vse
             .
          
           
             Of
             wealth
             and
             honour
             so
             shall
             grow
             thy
             heape
             ,
          
           
             Do
             this
             and
             soone
             thou
             shalt
             thy
             freedome
             reape
             .
          
           
             On
             tell-tales
             neckes
             thou
             seest
             the
             linke-kn●t
             chaines
             ,
          
           
             The
             filthy
             prison
             ●aithlesse
             breasts
             restraynes
             .
          
           
             Water
             in
             waters
             ,
             and
             fruit-flying
             touch
          
           
             Tantal●s
             feekes
             ,
             his
             long
             tongues
             gathe
             is
             such
             .
          
           
             While
             Iunoes
             watch-man
             I●
             too
             much
             ●yde
             ,
          
           
           
             Him
             timelesse
             death
             tooke
             ,
             she
             was
             deiside
          
           
             I
             saw
             ones
             legges
             with
             fetters
             black
             and
             blew
             ,
          
           
             By
             whom
             the
             husband
             his
             wiues
             incest
             knew
             ,
          
           
             More
             he
             deseru'd
             ,
             to
             both
             great
             harme
             he
             fram'd
          
           
             The
             man
             did
             grieue
             ,
             the
             woman
             was
             defam'd
             .
          
           
             Trust
             me
             all
             husbands
             for
             such
             faults
             are
             sad
          
           
             Nor
             make
             they
             any
             man
             that
             heare
             them
             glad
             .
          
           
             If
             he
             loues
             not
             ,
             deafe
             eares
             thou
             doest
             importune
             ,
          
           
             Or
             if
             he
             loues
             ;
             thy
             tale
             breedes
             his
             misfortune
             .
          
           
             Nor
             is
             it
             easily
             prou'd
             though
             manifest
             ,
          
           
             She
             safe
             by
             fauour
             of
             her
             iudge
             doth
             rest
             .
          
           
             Though
             himselfe
             see
             ;
             hee
             le
             credit
             her
             denyall
          
           
             Condemne
             his
             eyes
             ,
             and
             say
             there
             is
             no
             tryall
             .
          
           
             Spying
             his
             mistresse
             teares
             ,
             he
             will
             lament
          
           
             And
             say
             this
             blabbe
             shall
             suffer
             punishment
             .
          
           
             Why
             fighst
             gainst
             odds
             ?
             to
             thee
             being
             cast
             do
             happe
          
           
             Sharp
             stripes
             ,
             she
             sitteth
             in
             the
             iudges
             lappe
             .
          
           
             To
             meete
             for
             poyson
             or
             vilde
             facts
             we
             craue
             not
          
           
             My
             hands
             an
             vnsheath'd
             shining
             weapon
             haue
             not
             .
          
           
             We
             seeke
             that
             through
             thee
             safely
             loue
             we
             may
             ,
          
           
             What
             can
             be
             easier
             then
             the
             thing
             we
             pray
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             3.
             
          
           
             Ad
             Eunuchum
             seruantem
             dominam
             .
          
           
             AYe
             me
             an
             Eunuch
             keepes
             my
             mistresse
             chaste
             ,
          
           
             That
             cannot
             Venus
             mutuall
             pleasure
             taste
             .
          
           
             Who
             first
             depriu'd
             young
             boyes
             of
             their
             best
             part
             ,
          
           
             With
             selfe
             same
             wounds
             he
             gaue
             ,
             he
             ought
             to
             smart
             .
          
           
             To
             kinde
             requests
             thou
             wouldst
             more
             gentle
             proue
             ,
          
           
             If
             euer
             wench
             had
             made
             luke-warme
             thy
             loue
             :
          
           
             Thou
             wert
             not
             b●●ne
             to
             ride
             ,
             or
             armes
             to
             beare
             ,
          
           
           
             Thy
             hands
             agree
             not
             with
             the
             warlike
             speare
             .
          
           
             Men
             handle
             those
             ,
             all
             manly
             hopes
             ref●g●ue
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             mistrisse
             enseignes
             must
             be
             likewise
             thine
             .
          
           
             Please
             her
             ,
             her
             hate
             makes
             others
             thee
             abhorre
             .
          
           
             If
             she
             discardes
             thee
             ,
             what
             vse
             seru'st
             thou
             for
             ?
          
           
             Good
             forme
             there
             is
             ,
             yeares
             apt
             to
             play
             togither
             ,
          
           
             Vnmeet
             is
             beauty
             without
             vse
             to
             wither
             .
          
           
             Shee
             may
             decei●e
             thee
             ,
             though
             thou
             her
             protect
             ,
          
           
             What
             two
             determine
             neuer
             wants
             effect
             .
          
           
             Our
             prayers
             moue
             thee
             to
             assist
             our
             drift
             ,
          
           
             While
             thou
             hast
             time
             yet
             to
             bestow
             that
             gift
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             4.
             
          
           
             Quod
             amet●
             muli●res
             ,
             cuiuscunque
             formae
             sint
             .
          
           
             I
             Meane
             not
             to
             defend
             the
             scapes
             of
             any
             ,
          
           
             Or
             iustifie
             my
             vices
             being
             many
             .
          
           
             For
             I
             confesse
             ,
             if
             that
             might
             merite
             ,
             fauout
             ,
          
           
             Heere
             I
             display
             my
             lewd
             and
             loose
             behauiour
             .
          
           
             I
             loathe
             ,
             yet
             after
             that
             I
             loathe
             ,
             I
             runne
             ,
          
           
             Oh
             how
             the
             burthen
             irkes
             ,
             that
             we
             should
             shunne
             .
          
           
             I
             cannot
             rule
             my selfe
             ,
             but
             where
             loue
             please
             ,
          
           
             Am
             driuen
             like
             a
             ship
             vpon
             rough
             seas
             .
          
           
             No
             one
             face
             likes
             me
             best
             ,
             all
             faces
             moue
             ,
          
           
             A
             hundred
             reasons
             make
             me
             euer
             loue
             .
          
           
             If
             any
             eye
             me
             with
             a
             modest
             looke
             ,
          
           
             I
             blush
             ,
             and
             by
             that
             blushfull
             glance
             am
             tooke
             .
          
           
             And
             she
             that
             's
             coy
             I
             like
             for
             being
             no
             clowne
             ,
          
           
             Me
             thinkes
             she
             would
             be
             nimble
             when
             shee
             's
             down
             ,
          
           
             Though
             her
             sowre
             lookes
             a
             Sabines
             brow
             resemble
             ,
          
           
             I
             thinke
             shee
             le
             do
             ,
             but
             deepely
             can
             dissemble
             .
          
           
             If
             she
             be
             learn'd
             then
             for
             her
             skill
             I
             craue
             her
             .
          
           
           
             If
             not
             ,
             because
             shee
             s
             simple
             I
             would
             haue
             her
             .
          
           
             Before
             Callimachus
             one
             preferrs
             me
             farre
             ,
          
           
             Seeing
             she
             likes
             my
             bookes
             why
             should
             we
             iarre
             ?
          
           
             Another
             railes
             at
             me
             and
             that
             I
             write
          
           
             Yet
             would
             I
             lie
             with
             her
             if
             that
             I
             might
             .
          
           
             Trips
             she
             ,
             it
             likes
             me
             well
             ,
             plods
             she
             ,
             what
             than
             ?
          
           
             She
             will
             be
             nimbler
             ,
             lying
             with
             a
             man.
          
           
             And
             when
             one
             sweetly
             sings
             ,
             then
             strait
             I
             long
          
           
             To
             quauer
             on
             her
             lips
             euen
             in
             her
             song
             .
          
           
             Or
             if
             one
             touch
             the
             Lute
             with
             art
             and
             cunning
          
           
             Who
             would
             not
             loue
             those
             hands
             for
             their
             swift
             running
             ?
          
           
             And
             her
             I
             like
             that
             with
             a
             maiesty
          
           
             Folds
             vp
             her
             armes
             and
             makes
             low
             curtesy
             .
          
           
             To
             leaue
             my selfe
             ,
             that
             am
             in
             tocue
             with
             all
          
           
             Some
             one
             of
             these
             might
             make
             the
             chastest
             fall
             .
          
           
             If
             she
             be
             tall
             ,
             shee
             s
             like
             an
             Amazan
             ,
          
           
             And
             therefore
             fills
             the
             bed
             she
             lyes
             ,
             vpon
          
           
             If
             short
             ,
             she
             lyes
             the
             rounder
             to
             say
             troth
             ;
          
           
             Both
             short
             and
             long
             please
             me
             ,
             for
             I
             :
             loue
             both
             .
          
           
             I
             thinke
             what
             one
             vndeckt
             would
             be
             ,
             being
             drest
          
           
             Is
             she
             attired
             ,
             then
             shew
             her
             graces
             best
             .
          
           
             A
             white
             wench
             thralls
             me
             ,
             so
             doth
             golden
             yellow
          
           
             And
             nut-browne
             girles
             in
             doing
             haue
             no
             fellowe
             .
          
           
             If
             her
             white
             necke
             be
             shadowed
             with
             browne
             haire
             ,
          
           
             Why
             so
             was
             Laedas
             ,
             yet
             was
             Laeda
             faire
             .
          
           
             Amber
             trest
             is
             she
             ,
             then
             on
             the
             morne
             thinke
             I
          
           
             My
             loue
             alludes
             to
             euery
             history
             :
          
           
             A
             young
             wench
             pleaseth
             ,
             and
             an
             old
             is
             good
          
           
             This
             for
             her
             ●ookes
             and
             that
             for
             her
             woman-hood
             .
          
           
             Nay
             what
             is
             she
             that
             any
             Roman
             loues
          
           
             But
             my
             ambitious
             ranging
             minde
             approues
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             5.
             
          
           
             Ad
             amicam
             corruptam
             .
          
           
             NO
             loue
             is
             so
             deere
             (
             quiuer'd
             Cupid
             flie
             )
          
           
             That
             my
             chiefe
             with
             should
             be
             so
             oft
             to
             die
             .
          
           
             Minding
             my
             fault
             ,
             with
             death
             I
             wish
             to
             reuill
             ,
          
           
             Alas
             a
             wench
             is
             a
             perpetuall
             euill
             .
          
           
             No
             intercepted
             lines
             thy
             deedes
             display
             ,
          
           
             No
             giftes
             giuen
             secretly
             thy
             crime
             bewray
             .
          
           
             O
             would
             my
             proofes
             as
             vaine
             might
             be
             withstood
             ,
          
           
             Aye
             me
             poore
             soule
             why
             is
             my
             cause
             so
             good
             .
          
           
             He
             's
             happy
             ,
             that
             his
             loue
             dares
             boldly
             credit
             ,
          
           
             To
             whom
             his
             wench
             can
             say
             ,
             I
             neuer
             did
             it
             .
          
           
             He
             's
             cruell
             ,
             and
             too
             much
             his
             griefe
             doth
             fauour
             ,
          
           
             That
             seekes
             the
             conquest
             by
             her
             loose
             behauiour
             .
          
           
             Poore
             wench
             I
             sawe
             when
             thou
             didst
             thinke
             I
             slumbred
             .
          
           
             Not
             drunke
             ,
             your
             faults
             on
             the
             spilt
             wine
             I
             numbred
             .
          
           
             I
             saw
             your
             nodding
             eye-browes
             much
             to
             speake
             ,
          
           
             Euen
             from
             your
             cheekes
             ,
             part
             of
             a
             voyce
             did
             breake
             .
          
           
             Not
             silent
             were
             thine
             eyes
             ,
             the
             boord
             with
             wine
             ,
          
           
             Was
             scribled
             ,
             and
             thy
             fingers
             writ
             a
             line
             .
          
           
             I
             knew
             your
             speech
             (
             what
             doe
             not
             louers
             see
             ?
             )
          
           
             And
             words
             that
             seem'd
             for
             certaine
             markes
             to
             be
             .
          
           
             Now
             many
             guests
             were
             gone
             ,
             the
             feast
             being
             done
             ,
          
           
             The
             youthfull
             sort
             to
             diuers
             pastimes
             runne
             .
          
           
             I
             saw
             you
             then
             vnlawfull
             kisses
             ioyne
             ,
          
           
             (
             Such
             with
             my
             tounge
             it
             likes
             me
             to
             purloyne
             )
          
           
             None
             such
             the
             sister
             giues
             her
             brother
             graue
             ,
          
           
             But
             such
             kinde
             wenches
             let
             their
             louers
             haue
             .
          
           
             Phaebus
             gaue
             not
             Diana
             such
             ,
             t'
             is
             thought
             ,
          
           
             But
             Venus
             often
             to
             her
             Mars
             such
             brought
             .
          
           
           
             What
             doest
             ,
             I
             cryed
             ;
             transportst
             thou
             any
             delight
             ?
          
           
             My
             lordly
             hands
             I
             le
             throw
             vpon
             my
             right
             .
          
           
             Such
             blisse
             is
             onely
             common
             to
             vs
             two
             ,
          
           
             In
             this
             sweet
             good
             ,
             why
             hath
             a
             third
             to
             do
             ?
          
           
             This
             ,
             and
             what
             griefe
             inforc'd
             me
             say
             I
             say'd
             ,
          
           
             A
             scarlet
             blush
             her
             guilty
             face
             arayed
             .
          
           
             Euen
             such
             as
             by
             Aurora
             hath
             the
             skie
             ,
          
           
             Or
             maides
             that
             their
             betrothed
             husbands
             spie
             .
          
           
             Such
             as
             a
             rose
             mixt
             with
             a
             lilly
             breedes
             ,
          
           
             Or
             when
             the
             Moone
             trauailes
             with
             charmed
             steedes
             .
          
           
             Or
             such
             ,
             as
             least
             long
             yeares
             should
             rurne
             the
             die
             ,
          
           
             Arachne
             staynes
             Assyrian
             iuory
             .
          
           
             To
             these
             ,
             or
             some
             of
             these
             like
             was
             her
             colour
             ,
          
           
             By
             chaunce
             her
             beauty
             neuer
             shined
             fuller
             .
          
           
             She
             viewed
             the
             earth
             :
             the
             earth
             to
             view
             ,
             be●eem'd
             her
             ,
          
           
             She
             looked
             sad
             ▪
             sad
             ,
             comely
             I
             esteem'd
             her
             .
          
           
             Euen
             kembed
             as
             they
             were
             ,
             her
             lockes
             to
             rend
             ,
          
           
             And
             scratch
             her
             faire
             soft
             checkes
             I
             did
             intend
             .
          
           
             Seeing
             her
             face
             ,
             mine
             vpreard
             armes
             descended
             ,
          
           
             With
             her
             owne
             armour
             was
             my
             wench
             defended
             .
          
           
             I
             that
             ere-while
             was
             fierce
             ,
             now
             humbly
             sue
             ,
          
           
             Least
             with
             worse
             kisses
             she
             should
             me
             indue
             .
          
           
             She
             laught
             ,
             and
             kiss'd
             so
             sweetely
             as
             might
             make
          
           
             Wrath-kindled
             Ioue
             away
             his
             thunder
             shake
             .
          
           
             I
             grieue
             least
             others
             should
             such
             good
             perceiue
             ,
          
           
             And
             wish
             hereby
             them
             all
             vnknowne
             to
             leaue
             .
          
           
             Also
             much
             better
             were
             they
             then
             I
             tell
             ,
          
           
             And
             euer
             seem'd
             as
             some
             new
             sweet
             befell
             .
          
           
             ●Tis
             ill
             they
             pleas'd
             so
             much
             ,
             for
             in
             my
             lips
             ,
          
           
             Lay
             her
             whole
             tongue
             hid
             ,
             mine
             in
             hers
             she
             dips
             .
          
           
             This
             grieues
             me
             not
             ,
             no
             ioyned
             kisses
             spent
             ,
          
           
             Bewaile
             I
             onely
             ,
             though
             I
             them
             lament
             .
          
           
           
             No
             where
             can
             they
             be
             taught
             but
             in
             the
             bed
             ,
          
           
             I
             know
             no
             maister
             of
             so
             great
             hire
             sped
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             6.
             
          
           
             In
             mortem
             psittaci
             .
          
           
             THE
             parrat
             from
             East
             -
             India
             to
             me
             sent
             ,
          
           
             Is
             dead
             ,
             al-fowles
             her
             exequies
             frequent
             .
          
           
             Go
             goodly
             birdes
             ,
             striking
             your
             breasts
             bewaile
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             rough
             clawes
             your
             tender
             che●kes
             assaile
             .
          
           
             For
             wofull
             haires
             let
             piece-torne
             plumes
             abound
             ,
          
           
             For
             long
             shrild
             trumpets
             let
             your
             notes
             resound
             .
          
           
             Why
             Phylomele
             doest
             T●reus
             leudnesse
             mourn
             ?
          
           
             All
             wasting
             yeares
             haue
             that
             complaint
             not
             worne
             ?
          
           
             Thy
             tunes
             let
             this
             rare
             birdes
             sad
             funerall
             borrow
             ,
          
           
             It
             is
             as
             great
             ,
             but
             auncient
             cause
             of
             sorrow
             .
          
           
             All
             you
             whose
             pineons
             in
             the
             cleare
             aire
             sore
             ,
          
           
             But
             most
             thou
             friendly
             turtle-doue
             deplore
             .
          
           
             Full
             concord
             all
             your
             liues
             was
             you
             betwixt
             ,
          
           
             And
             to
             the
             end
             your
             constant
             faith
             stood
             fixt
             .
          
           
             What
             Pylades
             did
             to
             Orestes
             proue
             ,
          
           
             Such
             to
             the
             parrat
             was
             the
             turtle-doue
             .
          
           
             But
             what
             auailde
             this
             faith
             ?
             her
             rarest
             hew
             ?
          
           
             Or
             voyce
             that
             how
             to
             change
             the
             wilde
             notes
             knew
             ?
          
           
             What
             helpes
             it
             thou
             wert
             giuen
             to
             please
             my
             wench
             ,
          
           
             Birdes
             haples
             glory
             ,
             death
             thy
             life
             doth
             quench
             .
          
           
             Thou
             with
             thy
             quilles
             mightst
             make
             greene
             Emeralds
             darke
             ,
          
           
             And
             passe
             our
             scarlet
             of
             red
             saffrons
             marke
             .
          
           
             No
             such
             voyce-feigning
             bird
             was
             on
             the
             ground
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             spokest
             thy
             words
             so
             well
             with
             stammering
             sound
             .
          
           
             Enuy
             hath
             rapt
             thee
             ,
             no
             fierce
             warres
             thou
             mouedst
             ,
          
           
             Vaine
             babling
             speach
             ,
             and
             pleasant
             peace
             thou
             louedst
             .
          
           
           
             Behold
             how
             quailes
             among
             their
             battailes
             liue
             ,
          
           
             Which
             do
             perchance
             old
             age
             vnto
             them
             giue
             .
          
           
             A
             little
             fild
             thee
             ,
             and
             for
             loue
             of
             talke
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             mouth
             to
             tast
             of
             many
             meats
             did
             balke
             .
          
           
             Nuts
             were
             thy
             foode
             ,
             and
             Poppie
             caus'd
             thee
             sleepe
             ,
          
           
             Pure
             waters
             moysture
             thirst
             away
             did
             keepe
             .
          
           
             The
             rauenous
             vulture
             liues
             ,
             the
             Puttock
             houers
          
           
             Around
             the
             aire
             ,
             the
             Gadesse
             raine
             discouers
             .
          
           
             And
             Crowes
             suruiues
             armes-bearing
             Pallas
             hate
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             life
             nine
             ages
             scarce
             bring
             out
             of
             date
             .
          
           
             Dead
             is
             that
             speaking
             image
             of
             mans
             voice
             ,
          
           
             The
             parrat
             giue
             me
             ,
             the
             farre
             wordes
             best
             choice
             .
          
           
             The
             greedy
             spirits
             take
             the
             best
             things
             first
             ,
          
           
             Supplying
             their
             voyd
             places
             with
             the
             worst
             .
          
           
             Thersites
             :
             did
             Protesilaus
             suruiue
             ;
          
           
             And
             Hector
             dyed
             his
             brothers
             yet
             aliue
             .
          
           
             My
             wenches
             vowes
             for
             thee
             what
             should
             I
             show
             ,
          
           
             Which
             stormy
             South-windes
             into
             sea
             did
             blow
             ?
          
           
             The
             seuenth
             day
             came
             ,
             none
             following
             mightst
             thou
             see
             ,
          
           
             And
             the
             fates
             distaffe
             empty
             stood
             to
             thee
             :
          
           
             Yet
             words
             in
             thy
             benummed
             pallat
             rung
             ,
          
           
             Farewell
             Corinna
             cryed
             thy
             dying
             tongue
             .
          
           
             Elisium
             hath
             a
             wood
             of
             holme
             trees
             black
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             earth
             doth
             not
             perpetuall
             greene-grasse
             lacke
             ,
          
           
             There
             good
             birds
             rest
             (
             if
             we
             beleeue
             things
             hidden
             )
          
           
             Whence
             vncleane
             foules
             are
             sayd
             to
             be
             forbidden
             .
          
           
             There
             harmelesse
             Swans
             feed
             all
             abroad
             the
             riuer
             ,
          
           
             There
             ●●ues
             the
             Phaenix
             one
             alone
             bird
             euer
             .
          
           
             There
             Iunoes
             bird
             displayes
             his
             gorgious
             feather
             :
          
           
             And
             louing
             Doues
             kisse
             egerly
             together
             .
          
           
             The
             Parrat
             into
             wood
             receiu'd
             with
             these
             ,
          
           
             Turnes
             all
             the
             goodly
             birdes
             to
             what
             she
             please
             ,
          
           
           
             A
             graue
             her
             bones
             hides
             ,
             on
             her
             corps
             great
             graue
             ,
          
           
             The
             little
             stones
             these
             little
             verses
             haue
             .
          
           
             This
             ●ombe
             approues
             ,
             I
             pleasd
             my
             mistresse
             well
             ,
          
           
             My
             mouth
             in
             speaking
             did
             all
             birds
             excell
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             7.
             
          
           
             Amicae
             se
             purgat
             ,
             quod
             ancillam
             non●
             amet
             .
          
           
             DOost
             me
             of
             new
             crimes
             alwayes
             guilty
             frame
             ?
          
           
             To
             ouer-come
             ,
             so
             oft
             to
             fight
             I
             shame
             ,
          
           
             If
             on
             the
             Marble
             Theater
             I
             looke
             ,
          
           
             One
             among
             many
             is
             to
             grieue
             thee
             tooke
             .
          
           
             If
             some
             faire
             wench
             me
             secretly
             behold
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             arguest
             she
             doth
             secret
             markes
             vnfold
          
           
             If
             I
             prayse
             any
             ,
             thy
             poore
             haires
             thou
             tearest
             ,
          
           
             If
             blame
             ,
             dissembling
             of
             my
             fault
             thou
             fearest
             .
          
           
             If
             I
             looke
             well
             ,
             thou
             thinkest
             thou
             doest
             not
             moue
             ,
          
           
             If
             ill
             ,
             thou
             saist
             I
             dye
             for
             others
             loue
             .
          
           
             Would
             I
             were
             culpable
             of
             some
             offence
             ,
          
           
             They
             that
             deserue
             paine
             ,
             bear
             't
             with
             patience
             .
          
           
             Now
             rash
             accusing
             ,
             and
             thy
             vaine
             beliefe
             ,
          
           
             Forbid
             thine
             anger
             to
             procure
             my
             griefe
             .
          
           
             Loe
             how
             the
             miserable
             great
             ●ared
             Asse
             ,
          
           
             Duld
             with
             much
             beating
             slowly
             forth
             doth
             passe
             .
          
           
             Behold
             Cypassis
             wont
             to
             dresse
             thy
             head
             ,
          
           
             Is
             charg'd
             to
             violate
             her
             mistresse
             bed
             .
          
           
             The
             Gods
             from
             this
             sinne
             rid
             me
             of
             suspition
             ,
          
           
             To
             like
             a
             base
             wench
             of
             despisd
             condition
             .
          
           
             With
             Venus
             game
             who
             will
             a
             seruant
             grace
             ?
          
           
             Or
             any
             back
             made
             rough
             with
             stripes
             imbrace
             ?
          
           
             Adde
             she
             was
             diligent
             thy
             locks
             to
             braide
             ,
          
           
             And
             for
             her
             skill
             to
             thee
             a
             gratefull
             maide
             ▪
          
           
           
             Should
             I
             sollicit
             her
             that
             is
             so
             iust
             :
          
           
             To
             take
             repulse
             ,
             and
             cause
             her
             shew
             my
             lust
             ?
          
           
             I
             sweare
             by
             Venus
             ,
             and
             the
             wingd
             boyes
             bow
             ,
          
           
             My selfe
             vnguilty
             of
             this
             crime
             I
             know
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             8.
             
          
           
             Ad
             Cypassim
             ancillam
             Corinna
             .
          
           
             CYpassis
             that
             a
             thousand
             wayes
             trimst
             haire
             ,
          
           
             Worthy
             to
             keembe
             none
             but
             a
             Goddesse
             faire
             .
          
           
             Our
             pleasant
             scapes
             shew
             thee
             no
             clowne
             to
             be
             ,
          
           
             Apt
             to
             thy
             mistrisse
             ,
             but
             more
             apt
             to
             me
             .
          
           
             Who
             that
             our
             bodies
             were
             comprest
             bewrayde
             ?
          
           
             Whence
             knowes
             Corinna
             that
             with
             thee
             I
             playde
             ?
          
           
             Yet
             blusht
             I
             not
             ,
             nor
             vsde
             I
             any
             saying
             ,
          
           
             That
             might
             be
             vrg'd
             to
             witnesse
             our
             false
             playing
             .
          
           
             What
             if
             a
             man
             with
             bond-women
             offend
             ,
          
           
             To
             proue
             him
             foolish
             did
             I
             ere
             contend
             ?
          
           
             Achilles
             burnt
             with
             face
             of
             captiue
             Briseis
             ,
          
           
             Great
             Agamemnon
             lou'd
             his
             seruant
             Chriseis
             .
          
           
             Greater
             then
             these
             my selfe
             I
             not
             esteeme
             :
          
           
             What
             graced
             Kings
             ,
             in
             me
             no
             shame
             I
             deeme
             .
          
           
             But
             when
             on
             thee
             her
             angry
             eyes
             did
             rush
             ,
          
           
             In
             both
             my
             cheekes
             she
             did
             perceiue
             thee
             blush
             .
          
           
             But
             being
             present
             ,
             might
             that
             worke
             the
             best
             ,
          
           
             By
             Venus
             Deity
             how
             did
             I
             protest
             .
          
           
             Thou
             Goddesse
             doest
             command
             a
             warme
             South-blast
             ,
          
           
             My selfe
             oathes
             in
             Carpathian
             seas
             to
             cast
             .
          
           
             For
             which
             good
             turne
             my
             sweet
             reward
             repay
             ,
          
           
             Let
             me
             lye
             with
             thee
             browne
             Cypasse
             to
             day
             .
          
           
             Vngrate
             why
             feign'st
             new
             feares
             ?
             and
             doest
             refuse
             ;
          
           
             Well
             mayest
             thou
             one
             thing
             for
             thy
             Mistrisse
             vse
             .
          
           
           
             If
             thou
             deni'st
             foole
             ,
             I
             le
             our
             deeds
             expresse
             ,
          
           
             And
             as
             a
             traytour
             mine
             owne
             fault
             confesse
             .
          
           
             Telling
             thy
             mistresse
             ,
             where
             I
             was
             with
             thee
             ,
          
           
             How
             oft
             ,
             and
             by
             what
             meanes
             we
             did
             agree
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             9.
             
          
           
             Ad
             Cupidinem
             .
          
           
             O
             Cupid
             that
             doest
             neuer
             cease
             my
             smart
             ,
          
           
             O
             boy
             that
             lyest
             so
             slothfull
             in
             my
             heart
             .
          
           
             Why
             me
             that
             alwayes
             was
             thy
             souldiour
             found
             ,
          
           
             Doest
             harme
             ,
             and
             in
             thy
             tents
             why
             doest
             me
             wound
             ?
          
           
             Why
             burnes
             thy
             brand
             ,
             why
             strikes
             thy
             bow
             thy
             friends
             ?
          
           
             More
             glory
             by
             thy
             vanquisht
             foes
             ascends
             .
          
           
             Did
             not
             Pelides
             whom
             his
             Speare
             did
             grieue
             ,
          
           
             Being
             requirde
             ,
             with
             speedy
             help
             relieue
             ?
          
           
             Hunters
             leaue
             taken
             beasts
             ,
             pursue
             the
             chase
             ,
          
           
             And
             then
             things
             found
             do
             euer
             further
             pace
             .
          
           
             We
             people
             wholy
             giuen
             thee
             ,
             feele
             thine
             armes
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             dull
             hand
             staies
             thy
             striuing
             enemies
             harmes
             .
          
           
             Doest
             ioy
             to
             haue
             thy
             hooked
             Arrowes
             shaked
             ,
          
           
             In
             naked
             bones
             ?
             loue
             hath
             my
             bones
             left
             naked
             .
          
           
             So
             many
             men
             and
             maidens
             without
             loue
             ,
          
           
             Hence
             with
             great
             laude
             thou
             maiest
             a
             triumph
             moue
             .
          
           
             Rome
             if
             her
             strength
             the
             huge
             world
             had
             not
             fild
             ,
          
           
             With
             strawie
             cabins
             now
             her
             courts
             should
             build
             .
          
           
             The
             weary
             souldiour
             hath
             the
             conquerd
             fields
             ,
          
           
             His
             sword
             layed
             by
             ,
             safe
             ,
             though
             rude
             places
             yeelds
             .
          
           
             The
             Dock
             in
             harbours
             ships
             drawne
             ,
             from
             the
             floods
             ,
          
           
             Horse
             freed
             from
             seruice
             range
             abroad
             the
             woods
             .
          
           
             And
             time
             it
             was
             for
             me
             to
             liue
             in
             quiet
             ,
          
           
             That
             haue
             so
             oft
             seru'd
             pretty
             wenches
             dyet
             .
          
           
             Yet
             should
             I
             curse
             a
             God
             ,
             if
             he
             but
             said
             ,
          
           
           
             Liue
             without
             loue
             ,
             so
             sweete
             ill
             is
             a
             maide
             .
          
           
             For
             when
             my
             loathing
             it
             of
             heate
             depriues
             me
             ,
          
           
             I
             know
             not
             whether
             my
             mindes
             whirle-wind
             driues
             me
             .
          
           
             Euen
             as
             a
             head-strong
             courser
             beares
             away
             ,
          
           
             His
             rider
             vainely
             striuing
             him
             to
             stay
             .
          
           
             Or
             as
             a
             suddaine
             gaile
             thrusts
             into
             sea
             ,
          
           
             The
             heauen-touching
             barke
             now
             neere
             the
             lea
             .
          
           
             So
             wauering
             Cupid
             brings
             me
             backe
             amaine
             ,
          
           
             And
             purple
             loue
             resumes
             his
             dartes
             againe
             .
          
           
             Strike
             boy
             ,
             I
             offer
             thee
             my
             naked
             brest
             ,
          
           
             Heere
             thou
             hast
             strength
             ,
             here
             thy
             right
             hand
             doth
             rest
             .
          
           
             Heere
             of
             themselues
             thy
             shafts
             come
             ,
             as
             if
             shot
             ;
          
           
             Better
             then
             I
             their
             quiuer
             knowes
             them
             not
             :
          
           
             Haplesse
             is
             he
             that
             all
             the
             night
             lyes
             quiet
          
           
             And
             slumbring
             ,
             thinkes
             himselfe
             much
             blessed
             by
             it
             .
          
           
             Foole
             ,
             what
             is
             sleepe
             but
             image
             of
             cold
             death
             ,
          
           
             Long
             shalt
             thou
             rest
             when
             Fates
             expire
             thy
             breath
             .
          
           
             But
             me
             let
             crafty
             damsells
             words
             deceiue
             ,
          
           
             Great
             ioyes
             by
             hope
             I
             insy
             shall
             conceiue
             ,
          
           
             Now
             let
             her
             flatter
             me
             ,
             now
             chide
             me
             hard
             ,
          
           
             Let
             her
             inioy
             me
             oft
             ,
             oft
             be
             debard
             .
          
           
             Cupid
             by
             thee
             ,
             Mars
             in
             great
             doubt
             doth
             trample
             ,
          
           
             And
             thy
             step-father
             fights
             by
             thy
             example
             .
          
           
             Light
             art
             thou
             ,
             and
             more
             windy
             then
             thy
             winges
             ,
          
           
             Ioyes
             with
             vncertaine
             faith
             thou
             takest
             and
             bringes
             :
          
           
             Yet
             loue
             ,
             if
             thou
             with
             thy
             fayre
             mother
             heare
             ,
          
           
             Within
             my
             brest
             no
             desert
             empire
             beare
             ;
          
           
             Subdue
             the
             wandring
             wenches
             to
             thy
             raigne
             ,
          
           
             So
             of
             both
             people
             shalt
             thou
             homage
             gaine
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             10.
             
          
           
             Ad
             Graecinum
             quod
             eodem
             tempore
             duas
             amet
             .
          
           
             GRaecinus
             (
             well
             I
             wot
             )
             thou
             toldst
             me
             once
             ,
          
           
             I
             could
             not
             be
             in
             loue
             with
             two
             at
             once
             ,
          
           
             By
             thee
             deceiued
             ,
             by
             thee
             surpriz'd
             am
             I
          
           
             For
             now
             I
             loue
             two
             women
             equally
             .
          
           
             Both
             are
             welfauor'd
             ,
             both
             in
             rich
             aray
             ,
          
           
             Which
             is
             the
             louelyest
             it
             is
             hard
             to
             say
             .
          
           
             This
             seemes
             the
             fayrest
             ,
             so
             doth
             that
             to
             me
             ,
          
           
             And
             this
             doth
             please
             me
             most
             ,
             and
             so
             doth
             shee
             .
          
           
             Euen
             as
             a
             Boate
             ,
             tost
             by
             contrary
             winde
             ,
          
           
             So
             with
             this
             loue
             ,
             and
             that
             ,
             wauers
             my
             minde
             .
          
           
             Venus
             ,
             why
             doublest
             thou
             my
             endlesse
             smart
             ?
          
           
             Was
             not
             one
             wench
             enough
             to
             grieue
             my
             heart
             ?
          
           
             Why
             addst
             thou
             stars
             to
             heauen
             ,
             leaues
             to
             greene
             woods
             ,
          
           
             And
             to
             the
             vast
             deepe
             sea
             fresh
             water
             stoods
             ?
          
           
             Yet
             this
             is
             better
             farre
             then
             lye
             alone
             ,
          
           
             Let
             such
             as
             be
             mine
             enemies
             haue
             none
             .
          
           
             Yea
             let
             my
             foes
             sleepe
             in
             an
             empty
             bed
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             the
             midst
             their
             bodyes
             largely
             spread
             .
          
           
             But
             may
             soft
             loue
             roufe
             vp
             my
             drowise
             eyes
             ,
          
           
             And
             from
             my
             mistris
             bosome
             let
             me
             rise
             .
          
           
             Let
             one
             wench
             cloy
             me
             with
             sweet
             loues
             delight
          
           
             If
             one
             can
             doore
             ,
             if
             not
             ,
             two
             euery
             night
             .
          
           
             Though
             I
             am
             slender
             ,
             I
             haue
             store
             of
             pith
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             want
             I
             strength
             ,
             but
             weight
             to
             presse
             her
             with
          
           
             Pleasure
             addes
             fuell
             to
             my
             lust-full
             fire
             ,
          
           
             I
             pay
             them
             horne
             with
             that
             they
             most
             desire
             .
          
           
             Oft
             haue
             I
             spent
             the
             night
             in
             wa●●●●esse
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             the
             morne
             beene
             liuely
             〈◊〉
             the
             lesse
             .
          
           
           
             〈◊〉
             happy
             who
             loues
             ●●●tuall
             skirmish
             layes
             ▪
          
           
             And
             to
             the
             Gods
             for
             that
             death
             Ouid
             prayes
             .
          
           
             Let
             souldiers
             chase
             their
             enemies
             amaine
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             their
             blood
             eternall
             honour
             gaine
             .
          
           
             Let
             Merchants
             seeke
             wealth
             with
             periured
             lips
             ;
          
           
             And
             being
             wrackt
             carouse
             the
             sea
             tir'd
             by
             their
             ships
             .
          
           
             But
             when
             I
             dye
             ,
             would
             I
             might
             droupe
             with
             doing
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             the
             midst
             thereof
             set
             my
             soule
             going
             :
          
           
             That
             at
             my
             funeralls
             some
             may
             weeping
             crye
             ,
          
           
             Euen
             as
             he
             led
             his
             life
             ,
             so
             did
             he
             dye
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             11.
             
          
           
             Ad
             amicam
             nauigantem
             .
          
           
             THe
             lofty
             Pine
             from
             high
             mount
             Pelion
             raught
          
           
             Ill
             wayes
             by
             rough
             se
             as
             wodring
             waues
             first
             taught
          
           
             Which
             rashly
             t'wixt
             the
             sharpe
             rockes
             in
             the
             deepe
             ,
          
           
             Caried
             the
             famous
             golden-●leeced
             sheepe
             .
          
           
             O
             would
             that
             no
             Oares
             might
             in
             seas
             haue
             suncke
             ▪
          
           
             The
             Argos
             wrackt
             had
             deadly
             waters
             drunke
             .
          
           
             Loe
             country
             Gods
             ,
             and
             know
             bed
             to
             forsake
          
           
             Cortnna
             meanes
             ,
             and
             dangerous
             wayes
             to
             take
             .
          
           
             For
             thee
             the
             East
             and
             West
             winds
             make
             me
             pale
             .
          
           
             With
             Icy
             Boreas
             ,
             and
             the
             Southerne
             gale
             .
          
           
             Thou
             shalt
             admire
             no
             woods
             or
             Citties
             there
             ,
          
           
             The
             vniust
             seas
             all
             blewish
             do
             appeare
             .
          
           
             The
             Ocean
             hath
             no
             painted
             stones
             or
             shelles
             ,
          
           
             The
             sucking
             shore
             with
             their
             aboundance
             swels
             .
          
           
             Maides
             on
             the
             shore
             ,
             with
             marble
             white
             feet
             tread
             ,
          
           
             So
             farre
             't
             is
             safe
             ,
             but
             to
             go
             farther
             ,
             dread
             .
          
           
             Let
             others
             tell
             how
             winds
             fierce
             battailes
             wage
             ,
          
           
             How
             Scyllaes
             and
             Caribdis
             waters
             rage
             .
          
           
           
             And
             with
             what
             rocke
             the
             feard
             Cerannia
             threat
             ,
          
           
             In
             what
             gulfe
             either
             Syrtes
             haue
             their
             seate
             .
          
           
             Let
             others
             tell
             this
             ,
             and
             what
             each
             one
             speakes
          
           
             Beleeue
             ,
             no
             tempest
             the
             beleeuer
             wreakes
             .
          
           
             Too
             late
             you
             looke
             back
             ,
             when
             with
             anchor
             weighd
             ,
          
           
             The
             crooked
             Barque
             hath
             her
             swift
             sayles
             displayd
             .
          
           
             The
             carefull
             ship-man
             now
             feares
             angry
             gufts
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             the
             waters
             sees
             death
             neere
             him
             thrufts
             ,
          
           
             But
             if
             that
             Triton
             tosse
             the
             troubled
             floud
             ,
          
           
             In
             all
             thy
             face
             will
             be
             no
             crimson
             bloud
             .
          
           
             Then
             wilt
             thou
             Laedas
             noble
             twinne-starrs
             pray
             ,
          
           
             And
             he
             is
             happy
             whom
             the
             earth
             holds
             ,
             say
             ,
          
           
             It
             is
             more
             safe
             to
             sleepe
             ,
             to
             read
             a
             booke
             ,
          
           
             The
             Thracian
             Harpe
             with
             cunning
             to
             haue
             strooke
             ,
          
           
             But
             if
             my
             words
             with
             winged
             stormes
             hence
             slip
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             Galatea
             fauour
             thou
             her
             ship
             .
          
           
             The
             losse
             of
             such
             a
             wench
             much
             blame
             will
             gather
             ,
          
           
             Both
             to
             the
             Sea-nimphs
             and
             the
             Sea-nimphs
             father
             .
          
           
             Go
             minding
             to
             returne
             with
             prosperous
             winde
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             blast
             may
             hether
             strongly
             be
             inclinde
             ,
          
           
             Let
             Ner●●
             bend
             the
             waues
             vnto
             this
             shore
             ,
          
           
             Hether
             the
             windes
             blowe
             ,
             here
             the
             spring-tide
             rore
             ,
          
           
             Request
             mild
             Zepheres
             helpe
             for
             thy
             auaile
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             thy
             hand
             assist
             thy
             swelling
             saile
             ,
          
           
             I
             from
             the
             shore
             thy
             knowne
             ship
             first
             will
             see
             ,
          
           
             And
             say
             it
             brings
             her
             that
             preserueth
             me
             ;
          
           
             I
             le
             clip
             and
             kisse
             thee
             with
             all
             contentation
             ,
          
           
             For
             thy
             returne
             shall
             fall
             the
             vowd
             oblatio
             ▪
          
           
             And
             in
             the
             forme
             of
             beds
             wee
             le
             strow
             soft
             sand
             ,
          
           
             Each
             little
             hill
             shall
             for
             a
             table
             stand
             :
          
           
             There
             wine
             being
             fild
             ,
             thou
             many
             things
             shalt
             tell
             ,
          
           
             How
             almost
             wrackt
             thy
             ship
             in
             maine
             seas
             fell
             .
          
           
           
             And
             hasting
             to
             me
             ,
             neither
             darkesome
             night
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             violent
             South
             windes
             did
             thee
             ought
             affright
             .
          
           
             I
             le
             thinke
             all
             true
             ,
             though
             it
             be
             feigned
             matter
             ,
          
           
             Mine
             owne
             desires
             why
             should
             my selfe
             not
             flatter
             ?
          
           
             Let
             the
             bright
             day-starre
             cause
             in
             heauen
             this
             day
             be
             ,
          
           
             To
             bring
             that
             happy
             time
             so
             soone
             as
             may
             be
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             12.
             
          
           
             Exultat
             ,
             quod
             amica
             potitus
             sit
             .
          
           
             ABout
             my
             temples
             go
             triumphant
             bayes
             ,
          
           
             Conquer'd
             Corinna
             in
             my
             bosome
             layes
             .
          
           
             She
             whom
             her
             husband
             ,
             guard
             ,
             and
             gate
             ,
             as
             foes
             ,
          
           
             Least
             Arte
             should
             winne
             her
             ,
             firmely
             did
             inclose
             :
          
           
             That
             victory
             doth
             chiefely
             triumph
             merit
             ,
          
           
             Which
             without
             bloud-shed
             doth
             the
             pray
             inherit
             .
          
           
             No
             little
             ditched
             townes
             ,
             no
             lowely
             walls
             ,
          
           
             But
             to
             my
             share
             a
             captiue
             damfell
             falls
             .
          
           
             When
             Troy
             by
             ten
             yeares
             battaile
             tumbled
             downe
             ,
          
           
             With
             the
             Acrides
             many
             gainde
             renowne
             :
          
           
             But
             I
             no
             partner
             of
             my
             glory
             brooke
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             can
             another
             say
             his
             helpe
             I
             tooke
             .
          
           
             I
             guide
             and
             souldier
             ,
             wonne
             the
             field
             and
             weare
             her
             ,
          
           
             I
             was
             both
             horse-man
             ,
             foot-man
             ,
             standard-bearer
             .
          
           
             Nor
             in
             my
             act
             hath
             fortune
             mingled
             chance
             :
          
           
             O
             care-got
             triumph
             hither
             wards
             aduance
             .
          
           
             Nor
             is
             my
             warres
             cause
             new
             ;
             but
             for
             a
             Queene
          
           
             Europe
             ,
             and
             〈◊〉
             in
             firme
             ,
             peace
             had
             beene
             .
          
           
             The
             Lapithes
             ,
             and
             the
             Centautes
             for
             a
             woman
             ,
          
           
             To
             cruell
             armes
             their
             drunken
             selues
             did
             summon
             .
          
           
             A
             woman
             for●●
             〈◊〉
             the
             Troyanes
             new
             to
             enter
          
           
             Warres
             ,
             〈◊〉
             La●th●s
             ,
             in
             thy
             king
             somes
             center
             :
          
           
           
             A
             woman
             against
             late-built
             Rome
             did
             send
             ,
          
           
             The
             Sabine
             Fathers
             ,
             who
             sharp
             warres
             intend
             ,
          
           
             I
             saw
             how
             Bulls
             for
             a
             white
             Heifer
             striue
             ,
          
           
             Shee
             looking
             on
             them
             did
             more
             courage
             giue
             .
          
           
             And
             me
             with
             many
             ,
             but
             yet
             me
             without
             murther
             ,
          
           
             Cupid
             commands
             to
             moue
             his
             ensignes
             further
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             13.
             
          
           
             Ad
             Isidem
             ,
             vt
             parientem
             Corinnam
             iuuet
             .
          
           
             VVHile
             rashly
             her
             wombes
             burthen
             she
             casts
             out
             ,
          
           
             Weary
             Corinna
             hath
             her
             life
             in
             doubt
             .
          
           
             She
             secretly
             with
             me
             such
             harme
             attempted
             ,
          
           
             Angry
             I
             was
             ,
             but
             feare
             my
             wrath
             exempted
             .
          
           
             But
             sheconceiu'd
             of
             me
             ,
             or
             I
             am
             sure
          
           
             I
             oft
             haue
             done
             ,
             what
             might
             as
             much
             procure
             .
          
           
             Thou
             that
             frequents
             Canopus
             pleasant
             fields
             ,
          
           
             Memphis
             ,
             and
             Pharos
             that
             sweet
             date
             trees
             yeelds
             .
          
           
             And
             where
             swift
             Nile
             in
             his
             large
             channell
             slipping
             ,
          
           
             By
             seauen
             huge
             mouthes
             into
             the
             sea
             is
             slipping
             .
          
           
             By
             fear'd
             Annubis
             visage
             I
             thee
             pray
             ,
          
           
             So
             in
             thy
             Temples
             shall
             Osiris
             stay
             .
          
           
             And
             the
             dull-snake
             about
             thy
             offrings
             creepe
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             thy
             pomp
             horn'd
             Apis
             with
             thee
             keepe
             .
          
           
             Turne
             thy
             lookes
             hether
             ,
             and
             in
             one
             spare
             twaine
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             giuest
             my
             mistresse
             life
             ,
             she
             mine
             againe
             .
          
           
             Shee
             oft
             hath
             seru'd
             thee
             vpon
             certaine
             ●●ies
             ,
          
           
             Where
             the
             French
             rout
             engirt
             themselues
             with
             ●●ies
             .
          
           
             On
             labouring
             women
             thou
             doest
             pi●ty
             take
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             bodies
             with
             their
             heauy
             burthen
             sake
             ,
          
           
             Ny
             wench
             Lucina
             ,
             li●●creat
             thee
             fauour
             ,
          
           
             Worthy
             she
             is
             ,
             thou
             should'st
             in
             mercy
             saue
             her
             .
          
           
           
             In
             wiues
             ,
             with
             incest
             ●l
             thine
             Altars
             greete
             ,
          
           
             My selfe
             will
             bring
             vowed
             gifts
             before
             thy
             feete
             .
          
           
             Subscribing
             Naso
             with
             Corinna
             sau'd
             ,
          
           
             Doe
             but
             deserue
             gifts
             with
             this
             title
             grau'd
             .
          
           
             But
             if
             in
             so
             great
             feare
             I
             may
             aduize
             thee
             ,
          
           
             To
             haue
             this
             skirmish
             fought
             let
             it
             suffice
             thee
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             14.
             
          
           
             In
             amicam
             ,
             quod
             abortivum
             ipsa
             fecerit
             .
          
           
             VVHat
             helpes
             it
             Woman
             to
             be
             free
             from
             warre
             ?
          
           
             Nor
             being
             arm'd
             fierce
             troups
             to
             follow
             farre
             ?
          
           
             If
             without
             battle
             selfe-wrought
             wounds
             annoy
             them
             ,
          
           
             And
             their
             owne
             priuie
             weapon'd
             hands
             destroy
             them
             .
          
           
             Who
             vnborne
             infants
             first
             to
             flay
             inuented
             ,
          
           
             Deseru'd
             thereby
             with
             death
             to
             be
             tormented
             .
          
           
             Because
             thy
             belly
             should
             rough
             wrinckles
             lack
             ,
          
           
             Wilt
             thou
             thy
             wombe-inclosed
             off-spring
             wrack
             ?
          
           
             Had
             ancient
             Mothers
             this
             vile
             custome
             cherisht
             ,
          
           
             All
             humane
             kinde
             by
             their
             default
             had
             perisht
             .
          
           
             On
             stones
             ,
             our
             stocks
             originall
             should
             be
             hurld
             ,
          
           
             Againe
             by
             some
             in
             this
             vnpeopled
             world
             .
          
           
             Who
             should
             haue
             Priams
             wealthy
             substance
             wonne
             ,
          
           
             If
             watry
             Thetis
             had
             her
             childe
             fordone
             ?
          
           
             In
             swelling
             wombe
             her
             twinnes
             had
             〈◊〉
             kilde
             ?
          
           
             He
             had
             not
             beene
             that
             conquering
             Rome
             did
             build
             .
          
           
             Had
             Venus
             spoilde
             her
             bellies
             Troyane
             fruite
             ,
          
           
             The
             earth
             of
             Caesars
             had
             beene
             destitute
             .
          
           
             Thou
             also
             that
             wert
             borne
             faire
             ,
             had'st
             decayed
             ,
          
           
             If
             such
             a
             worke
             thy
             mother
             had
             assayed
             .
          
           
             My selfe
             that
             better
             dye
             with
             louing
             may
             ,
          
           
           
             Had
             seene
             ,
             my
             mother
             killing
             me
             ,
             to
             day
             .
          
           
             Why
             takest
             increasing
             grapes
             from
             Vine-trees
             full
             ?
          
           
             With
             cruell
             hand
             why
             doest
             greene
             Apples
             pull
             ?
          
           
             Fruites
             ripe
             will
             fall
             ,
             let
             springing
             things
             increase
             ,
          
           
             Life
             is
             no
             ight
             price
             of
             a
             small
             surcease
             .
          
           
             Why
             with
             hid
             irons
             are
             your
             bowels
             torne
             ?
          
           
             And
             why
             dire
             poyson
             giue
             you
             babes
             vnborne
             ?
          
           
             At
             Cholcis
             stain'd
             with
             childrens
             blood
             men
             raile
             ,
          
           
             And
             mother-murtherd●
             Itis
             ,
             thee
             bewaile
             .
          
           
             Both
             vnkinde
             parents
             but
             for
             causes
             sad
             ,
          
           
             Their
             wedlocks
             pledges
             veng'd
             their
             husbands
             bad
             .
          
           
             What
             Tereus
             ,
             what
             Ias●●
             you
             prouokes
             ,
          
           
             To
             plague
             your
             bodies
             with
             such
             harmefull
             strokes
             ?
          
           
             Armenian
             Tygers
             neuer
             did
             so
             ill
             ,
          
           
             Not
             dares
             the
             Lyone
             ●●●her
             young
             whelpes
             kill
             .
          
           
             But
             tender
             Damsels
             doe
             it
             ,
             though
             with
             paine
             ,
          
           
             Oft
             dyes
             she
             that
             her
             paunch-wrapt
             child
             hath
             slaine
             .
          
           
             Shee
             dyes
             ,
             and
             with
             loose
             haires
             ,
             to
             graue
             is
             sent
             ,
          
           
             And
             who
             ere●see
             her
             ,
             worthily
             lament
             .
          
           
             But
             in
             the
             eyre
             let
             these
             words
             come
             to
             nought
             ,
          
           
             And
             my
             presages
             of
             no
             weight
             be
             thought
             .
          
           
             Forgiue
             her
             gratious
             Gods
             this
             one
             delict
             ,
          
           
             And
             one
             the
             next
             fau●●
             punishment
             inflict
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             15.
             
          
           
             Ad
             annulum
             ,
             quem
             dono
             amicae
             d●dit
             .
          
           
             THou
             ring
             that
             shalt
             my
             faire
             girles
             finger
             binde
             ,
          
           
             Wherein
             is
             seene
             the
             giuers
             louing
             minde
             :
          
           
             Be
             welcome
             to
             her
             ,
             gladly
             let
             her
             take
             thee
             ,
          
           
             And
             her
             small
             ioynts
             incireling
             round
             ho●●e
             make
             thee
             .
          
           
           
             Fit
             her
             so
             well
             ,
             as
             she
             is
             fit
             for
             me
             ,
          
           
             And
             of
             iust
             compasse
             for
             her
             knuckles
             be
             .
          
           
             Bestring
             in
             my
             mistresse
             armes
             shall
             lie
             ,
          
           
             My selfe
             ,
             poore
             wretch
             mine
             owne
             gifts
             now
             enuie
             .
          
           
             O
             would
             that
             sodainely
             into
             my
             gift
             ,
          
           
             I
             could
             my selfe
             by
             secret
             Magick
             shift
             .
          
           
             Then
             would
             I
             wish
             thee
             touch
             my
             mistresse
             pappe
             ,
          
           
             And
             hide
             thy
             left
             hand
             vnderneath
             her
             lappe
             .
          
           
             I
             would
             get
             off
             though
             straight
             ,
             and
             sticking
             fast
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             her
             bosome
             strangely
             fall
             at
             last
             .
          
           
             Then
             I
             ,
             that
             I
             may
             seale
             her
             priuie
             leaues
             ,
          
           
             Least
             to
             the
             waxe
             the
             hold-fast
             drye
             gemme
             cleaues
             .
          
           
             Would
             first
             my
             beautious
             wenches
             moist
             lips
             touch
             ,
          
           
             Onely
             I
             le
             signe
             nought
             ,
             that
             may
             grieue
             me
             much
             .
          
           
             I
             would
             not
             out
             ,
             might
             I
             in
             one
             place
             hit
             ,
          
           
             But
             in
             lesse
             compasse
             her
             small
             fingers
             knit
             ,
          
           
             My
             life
             ,
             that
             I
             will
             shame
             thee
             neuer
             feare
             ,
          
           
             Or
             by
             a
             loade
             thou
             should'st
             refuse
             to
             beare
             .
          
           
             Weare
             me
             ,
             when
             warmest
             showers
             thy
             members
             wash
             ,
          
           
             And
             through
             the
             gemme
             let
             thy
             lost
             waters
             pash
             .
          
           
             But
             seeing
             thee
             ,
             I
             thinke
             my
             thing
             will
             swell
             ,
          
           
             And
             euen
             the
             ring
             performe
             a
             mans
             part
             well
             .
          
           
             Vaine
             things
             why
             wish
             I
             ?
             goe
             small
             gift
             from
             hand
             ,
          
           
             Let
             her
             my
             faith
             with
             thee
             giuen
             ,
             vnderstand
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             16.
             
          
           
             Ad
             amicant
             ,
             vt
             adrura
             su●veniat
             .
          
           
             
               SVlmo
               ,
               Pelignies
            
             third
             part
             me
             containes
             ,
          
           
             A
             small
             ,
             but
             wholesome
             soyle
             with
             watrie
             veynes
             .
          
           
             Although
             the
             Sunne
             to
             riue
             the
             earth
             incline
             ,
          
           
             And
             the
             Icartan
             froward
             Dog-starre
             shine
             .
          
           
           
             Pilignian
             fields
             which
             liquid
             riuers
             flow
             ,
          
           
             And
             on
             the
             soft
             ground
             fertile
             greene
             grasse
             grow
             .
          
           
             With
             corne
             the
             earth
             abounds
             ,
             with
             vines
             much
             more
             ,
          
           
             And
             some
             few
             pastures
             Pallas
             Oliues
             bore
             .
          
           
             And
             by
             the
             rising
             herbes
             ,
             where
             cleare
             springs
             slide
             ,
          
           
             A
             grassie
             turffe
             the
             moistened
             earth
             doth
             hide
             .
          
           
             But
             absent
             is
             my
             fire
             ,
             lyes
             I
             le
             tell
             none
             ,
          
           
             My
             heate
             is
             heere
             ,
             what
             moues
             my
             heate
             is
             gone
             .
          
           
             Pollux
             and
             Castor
             ,
             might
             I
             stand
             betwixt
             ,
          
           
             In
             heauen
             without
             thee
             would
             I
             not
             be
             fixt
             .
          
           
             Vpon
             the
             cold
             earth
             pensiue
             let
             them
             lay
             ,
          
           
             That
             meane
             to
             trauaile
             some
             long
             irkesome
             way
             .
          
           
             Or
             else
             will
             maidens
             ,
             yong-menns
             mates
             ,
             to
             go
          
           
             If
             they
             determine
             to
             perseuere
             so
             .
          
           
             Then
             on
             the
             rough
             Alpes
             should
             I
             tread
             aloft
             ,
          
           
             My
             hard
             way
             with
             my
             mistresse
             would
             seeme
             soft
             ,
          
           
             With
             her
             I
             durst
             the
             
               Lybian
               Sirtes
            
             break
             through
             ,
          
           
             And
             raging
             Seas
             in
             boistrous
             South-winds
             plough
             .
          
           
             No
             barking
             Dogs
             ,
             that
             Syllaes
             intrailes
             beare
             ,
          
           
             Not
             thy
             gulfes
             crooked
             Malea
             ,
             would
             I
             feare
             .
          
           
             No
             flowing
             waues
             with
             drowned
             ships
             forth
             powred
             ,
          
           
             By
             cloyed
             Chartbdis
             ,
             and
             againe
             deuoured
             .
          
           
             But
             if
             sterne
             Neptunes
             windie
             powre
             preuaile
             .
          
           
             And
             waters
             force
             ,
             force
             helping
             Gods
             to
             faile
             ,
          
           
             With
             thy
             white
             armes
             vpon
             my
             shoulders
             feaze
             ,
          
           
             So
             sweet
             a
             burthen
             I
             will
             beare
             with
             eaze
             .
          
           
             The
             youth
             oft
             swimming
             to
             his
             Hero
             kinde
             ,
          
           
             Had
             then
             swum
             ouer
             ,
             but
             the
             way
             was
             blinde
             ,
          
           
             But
             without
             thee
             ,
             although
             vine-planted
             ground
          
           
             Conteines
             me
             ,
             though
             the
             streames
             in
             fields
             surround
             .
          
           
             Though
             Hindes
             in
             brookes
             the
             running
             waters
             bring
             ,
          
           
             And
             coole
             gales
             shake
             the
             tall
             trees
             leauy
             spring
             .
          
           
           
             Healthfull
             Peligny
             I
             esteeme
             nought
             worth
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             doe
             I
             like
             the
             countrie
             of
             my
             birth
             .
          
           
             
               Sythia
               ,
               Cilicia
               ,
               Brittaine
            
             are
             as
             good
             ,
          
           
             And
             rockes
             dyed
             crimson
             with
             Prometheus
             blood
             .
          
           
             Elmes
             loue
             the
             Vines
             ,
             the
             Vines
             with
             Elmes
             abide
             ,
          
           
             Why
             doth
             my
             mistresse
             from
             me
             oft
             deuide
             ?
          
           
             Thou
             swearest
             ,
             deuision
             should
             not
             twixt
             vs
             ●ise
             ,
          
           
             By
             me
             ,
             and
             by
             my
             starres
             ,
             thy
             ra●iant
             eyes
             .
          
           
             Maides
             words
             more
             vaine
             and
             light
             then
             falling
             leaues
             ,
          
           
             Which
             as
             it
             seemes
             ,
             hence
             winde
             and
             sea
             bereaues
             ,
          
           
             If
             any
             godly
             care
             of
             me
             thou
             hast
             ,
          
           
             Adde
             deeds
             vnto
             thy
             promises
             at
             last
             .
          
           
             And
             with
             swift
             Naggs
             drawing
             thy
             little
             Coach
             ,
          
           
             (
             Their
             reines
             let
             loose
             )
             right
             soone
             my
             house
             approach
             .
          
           
             But
             when
             she
             comes
             ,
             your
             swelling
             mounts
             sinck
             down
             ▪
          
           
             And
             falling
             vallies
             be
             the
             smooth-wayes
             crowne
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             17.
             
          
           
             Quod
             Corinnae
             soli
             sit
             seruturus
             .
          
           
             TO
             serue
             a
             wench
             if
             any
             thinke
             it
             shame
             ,
          
           
             He
             being
             iudge
             ,
             I
             am
             conuinc'd
             of
             blame
             .
          
           
             Let
             me
             be
             slandered
             ,
             while
             my
             fire
             she
             hides
             ,
          
           
             That
             Paphos
             ,
             and
             the
             floud-beate
             Cithera
             guides
             ,
          
           
             Would
             I
             had
             beene
             my
             mistresse
             gentle
             prey
             ,
          
           
             Since
             some
             faire
             one
             I
             should
             of
             force
             obey
             ,
          
           
             Beauty
             giues
             heart
             ,
             Corinnas
             lookes
             excell
             ,
          
           
             Aye
             me
             why
             is
             it
             knowne
             to
             her
             so
             well
             ?
          
           
             But
             by
             her
             glasse
             disdainefull
             pride
             she
             learnes
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             she
             her selfe
             but
             first
             trim'd
             vp
             discernes
             .
          
           
             Not
             though
             thy
             face
             in
             all
             things
             make
             thee
             raigne
             ,
          
           
             (
             O
             Face
             most
             cunning
             mine
             eyes
             to
             de
             tayne
             )
          
           
           
             Thou
             ought'st
             therefore
             to
             scorne
             me
             for
             thy
             mate
             ,
          
           
             Small
             things
             with
             greater
             may
             be
             copulate
             ,
          
           
             Loue-snarde
             Calypso
             is
             supposde
             to
             pray
             ,
          
           
             A
             mortall
             nimphes
             refusing
             Lord
             to
             stay
             .
          
           
             Who
             doubts
             ,
             with
             
               Pelius
               ,
               Thetis
            
             did
             consort
             ,
          
           
             Egeria
             with
             iust
             Numa
             had
             good
             sport
             ,
          
           
             Venus
             with
             Vulcan
             ,
             though
             smiths
             tooles
             laide
             by
             ,
          
           
             With
             his
             stumpe-foote
             he
             halts
             ill-fauouredly
             .
          
           
             This
             kinde
             of
             verse
             is
             not
             alike
             ,
             yet
             fit
             ,
          
           
             With
             shorter
             numbers
             the
             heroick
             sit
             .
          
           
             And
             thou
             my
             light
             accept
             me
             how
             so
             euer
             ,
          
           
             Lay
             in
             the
             mid
             bed
             ,
             there
             be
             my
             law
             giuer
             .
          
           
             My
             stay
             no
             crime
             ,
             my
             flight
             no
             ioy
             shall
             breed
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             of
             our
             loue
             ,
             to
             be
             asham'd
             we
             need
             .
          
           
             For
             great
             reuenews
             I
             good
             verses
             haue
             ,
          
           
             And
             many
             by
             me
             to
             get
             glory
             craue
             .
          
           
             I
             know
             a
             wench
             reports
             her selfe
             Corinue
             ,
          
           
             What
             would
             not
             she
             giue
             that
             faire
             name
             to
             winne
             ?
          
           
             But
             sundry
             flouds
             in
             one
             banke
             neuer
             go
             ,
          
           
             Eurotas
             cold
             ,
             and
             poplar-bearing
             Po.
          
           
             Nor
             in
             my
             bookes
             shall
             one
             but
             thou
             be
             writ
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             doest
             alone
             giue
             matter
             to
             my
             wit.
             
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             18.
             
          
           
             Ad
             Macrum
             ,
             quod
             de
             amoribus
             scribat
             .
          
           
             TO
             tragick
             verse
             while
             thou
             Achilles
             train'st
             ,
          
           
             And
             new
             sworne
             souldiours
             maiden
             armes
             retain'st
             ,
          
           
             We
             Macer
             sit
             in
             Venus
             slothfull
             shade
             ,
          
           
             And
             tender
             loue
             hath
             great
             things
             hatefull
             made
             .
          
           
             Often
             at
             length
             ,
             my
             wench
             depart
             ,
             I
             bid
             ,
          
           
             Shee
             in
             my
             lap
             sits
             still
             as
             earst
             she
             did
             .
          
           
           
             I
             said
             it
             takes
             me
             ,
             halfe
             to
             weeping
             framed
             ,
          
           
             Aye
             me
             she
             cries
             ,
             to
             loue
             ,
             why
             art
             a●●●●ed
             ?
          
           
             Then
             wrethes
             about
             my
             neck
             her
             winding
             armes
             ,
          
           
             And
             thousand
             kisses
             giues
             ,
             that
             worke
             my
             harmes
             :
          
           
             I-yeeld
             ,
             and
             back
             my
             wit
             from
             battels
             bring
             ,
          
           
             Domestick
             acts
             ,
             and
             mine
             owne
             warres
             to
             sing
             .
          
           
             Yet
             tragedies
             ,
             and
             scepters
             fild
             my
             lines
             ,
          
           
             But
             though
             I
             apt
             were
             for
             such
             high
             deseignes
             .
          
           
             Loue
             laughed
             at
             my
             cloak
             ,
             and
             buskines
             painted
             ,
          
           
             And
             rule
             so
             soone
             with
             priuate
             hands
             acquainted
             .
          
           
             My
             mistresse
             deity
             also
             drew
             me
             from
             it
             ,
          
           
             And
             loue
             triumpheth
             o're
             his
             busking
             Poet.
          
           
             What
             lawfull
             is
             ,
             or
             we
             professe
             loues
             art
             .
          
           
             (
             Alas
             my
             precepts
             turne
             my selfe
             to
             smart
             )
          
           
             We
             write
             ,
             or
             what
             Penelope
             sends
             Vlysses
             ,
          
           
             Or
             Phillis
             teares
             that
             her
             Demophoon
             misses
             .
          
           
             What
             thanklesse
             
               Iason
               ,
               Macareus
            
             ,
             and
             Paris
             ,
          
           
             Phedra
             ,
             and
             Hipolite
             may
             read
             ,
             my
             care
             is
             ,
          
           
             And
             what
             poore
             Dide
             ,
             with
             her
             drawne
             sword
             sharp
             ,
          
           
             Doth
             say
             ,
             with
             her
             that
             lou'd
             the
             Aonian
             ha●p
             .
          
           
             As
             soone
             as
             from
             strange
             landes
             Sabinus
             came
             ,
          
           
             And
             writings
             did
             from
             diuerse
             places
             frame
             .
          
           
             White-cheekt
             Penelope
             knew
             Vlysses
             signe
             ,
          
           
             The
             step-dame
             read
             Hyppolitus
             lustlesse
             line
             .
          
           
             Aeneas
             to
             Elisa
             aunswer
             giues
             ,
          
           
             And
             Phillis
             hath
             to
             reade
             ;
             if
             now
             she
             liues
             .
          
           
             Iasons
             sad
             letter
             doth
             Hipsipile
             greete
             ,
          
           
             Sappho
             her
             vowed
             harp
             laies
             at
             Phoebus
             feete
             .
          
           
             Nor
             of
             thee
             Macer
             that
             resound'st
             forth
             armes
             ,
          
           
             Is
             golden
             loue
             hid
             in
             Mars
             mid
             alarmes
             .
          
           
             There
             Paris
             is
             ,
             and
             Helens
             crymes
             record
             ,
          
           
             With
             Laedemeia
             mate
             to
             her
             dead
             Lord.
          
           
           
             Vnlesse
             I
             erre
             to
             these
             thou
             more
             incline
             ,
          
           
             Then
             warres
             ,
             and
             from
             thy
             tents
             wilt
             come
             to
             mine
             ,
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             19.
             
          
           
             Adriualem
             ,
             cui
             vxor
             curae
             non
             erat
             .
          
           
             FOole
             if
             to
             keepe
             thy
             wife
             thou
             hast
             no
             neede
             ,
          
           
             Keepe
             her
             from
             me
             ,
             my
             more
             desire
             to
             breede
             ,
          
           
             We
             skorne
             things
             lawfull
             ,
             stolne
             sweetes
             we
             affect
             ,
          
           
             Cruell
             is
             he
             that
             loues
             whom
             none
             protect
             .
          
           
             Let
             vs
             both
             louers
             hope
             ,
             and
             feare
             a
             like
             ,
          
           
             And
             may
             repulse
             place
             for
             our
             wishes
             strike
             .
          
           
             What
             should
             I
             do
             with
             fortune
             that
             n'ere
             failes
             me
             ?
          
           
             Nothing
             I
             loue
             ,
             that
             at
             all
             times
             auailes
             me
             .
          
           
             Wily
             Corinna
             ,
             saw
             this
             blemish
             in
             me
             ,
          
           
             And
             craftily
             knowes
             by
             what
             meanes
             to
             winne
             me
             .
          
           
             Ah
             often
             ,
             that
             her
             haole
             head
             aked
             ,
             she
             lying
             ,
          
           
             Wild
             me
             ,
             whose
             slow
             feete
             sought
             delay
             by
             flying
             ,
          
           
             Ah
             oft
             ,
             how
             much
             she
             might
             she
             feign'd
             offence
             ;
          
           
             And
             doing
             wrong
             made
             shew
             of
             innocence
             .
          
           
             So
             hauing
             vext
             she
             nourisht
             my
             warme
             fire
             ,
          
           
             And
             was
             againe
             most
             apt
             to
             my
             desire
             .
          
           
             To
             please
             me
             ,
             what
             faire
             tearmes
             and
             sweete
             words
             ha'
             ●
             she
          
           
             Great
             Gods
             what
             kisses
             ,
             and
             how
             many
             gaue
             she
             ?
          
           
             Thou
             also
             that
             late
             tookest
             mine
             eyes
             away
             ,
          
           
             Oft
             couzen
             me
             ,
             oft
             being
             wooed
             say
             nay
             .
          
           
             And
             on
             thy
             thre-shold
             let
             me
             lie
             dispred
             ,
          
           
             Suffring
             much
             cold
             by
             hoary
             nights
             frost
             bred
             .
          
           
             So
             shall
             my
             loue
             continue
             many
             yeares
             ,
          
           
             This
             doth
             delight
             me
             ,
             this
             my
             courage
             cheares
             .
          
           
             Fat
             loue
             ,
             and
             too
             much
             fulsome
             me
             annoyes
             ,
          
           
             Euen
             as
             sweet
             meate
             a
             glutted
             stomack
             cloyes
             .
          
           
             In
             brazen
             tower
             had
             not
             Danae
             dwelt
             ,
          
           
             A
             mothers
             ioy
             by
             Ioue
             she
             had
             not
             felt
             .
          
           
           
             While
             
               Iuno
               Io
            
             keepes
             ,
             when
             hornes
             she
             wore
             ,
          
           
             Ioue
             liked
             her
             better
             then
             he
             did
             before
             .
          
           
             Who
             couets
             lawfull
             things
             takes
             leaues
             from
             woods
             ,
          
           
             And
             drinkes
             stolne
             waters
             in
             surrow●ding
             floodes
             .
          
           
             Her
             louer
             let
             her
             mock
             ,
             that
             long
             will
             raigne
             ,
          
           
             Aye
             me
             ,
             let
             not
             my
             warnings
             cause
             my
             paine
             .
          
           
             What
             euer
             haps
             ,
             by
             suffrance
             harme
             is
             done
             ,
          
           
             What
             flies
             ,
             I
             follow
             ,
             what
             followes
             me
             I
             shunne
             .
          
           
             But
             thou
             of
             thy
             faire
             damsell
             too
             secure
             ,
          
           
             Begin
             to
             shut
             thy
             house
             at
             euening
             sure
             .
          
           
             Search
             at
             the
             dore
             who
             knocks
             ost
             in
             the
             darke
             ,
          
           
             In
             nights
             deep
             silence
             why
             the
             ban-dogges
             barke
             .
          
           
             Whether
             the
             subtile
             maide
             ●●●es
             bringes
             and
             carries
             ,
          
           
             Why
             she
             alone
             in
             empty
             bed
             oft
             tarries
             .
          
           
             Let
             this
             care
             some-times
             bite
             thee
             to
             the
             quick
             ,
          
           
             That
             to
             deceits
             it
             may
             me
             forward
             prick
             .
          
           
             To
             steale
             sands
             from
             the
             shore
             he
             loues
             alife
             ,
          
           
             That
             can
             effect
             a
             foolish
             wittals
             wife
             .
          
           
             Now
             I
             forewarne
             ,
             vnlesse
             to
             keep
             her
             stronger
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             doest
             begin
             ,
             she
             shall
             be
             mine
             no
             longer
             .
          
           
             Long
             haue
             I
             borne
             much
             ,
             hoping
             time
             would
             beate
             thee
             ,
          
           
             To
             guard
             her
             well
             ,
             that
             well
             I
             might
             intreate
             thee
             .
          
           
             Thou
             suffrest
             what
             no
             husband
             can
             endure
             ,
          
           
             But
             of
             my
             loue
             it
             will
             an
             end
             procure
             .
          
           
             Shall
             I
             poore
             soule
             be
             neuer
             interdicted
             ?
          
           
             Nor
             neuer
             with
             nights
             sharp
             reuenge
             afflicted
             ?
          
           
             In
             sleeping
             shall
             I
             fearelesse
             draw
             my
             breath
             ?
          
           
             Wilt
             nothing
             do
             ,
             why
             I
             should
             wish
             thy
             death
             ?
          
           
             Can
             I
             but
             loath
             a
             husband
             growne
             a
             bawde
             ,
          
           
             By
             thy
             default
             thou
             doest
             our
             ioyes
             defaude
             .
          
           
             Some
             other
             seeke
             that
             may
             in
             patience
             striue
             with
             thee
             ,
          
           
             To
             pleasure
             me
             ,
             for-bid
             me
             to
             coriue
             with
             thee
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           P.
           Ouidij
           Nasonis
           amorum
           ,
           Liber
           tertius
           .
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             1.
             
          
           
             Deliberatio
             poetae
             ,
             vtrum
             elegos
             pergat
             scribere
             an
             potius
             tragoedias
             .
          
           
             AN
             old
             wood
             ,
             stands
             vncut
             of
             long
             yeares
             space
             ,
          
           
             T'
             is
             credible
             some
             good
             head
             haunts
             the
             place
             ,
          
           
             In
             midst
             thereof
             a
             stone-pau'd
             sacred
             spring
             ,
          
           
             Where
             round
             about
             small
             birdes
             most
             sweetely
             sing
             .
          
           
             Here
             while
             I
             walke
             hid
             close
             in
             shadie
             groue
             ,
          
           
             To
             finde
             ,
             what
             worke
             ,
             my
             muse
             might
             moue
             ,
             I
             stroue
             ,
          
           
             Elegta
             came
             with
             haires
             perfumed
             sweete
             ,
          
           
             And
             one
             ,
             I
             thinke
             ,
             was
             longer
             ,
             of
             her
             feete
             .
          
           
             A
             decent
             forme
             ,
             thinne
             robe
             ,
             a
             louers
             looke
             ,
          
           
             By
             her
             footes
             blemish
             greater
             grace
             she
             tooke
             ,
          
           
             Then
             with
             huge
             steps
             came
             violent
             Tragedie
             ,
          
           
             Sterne
             was
             her
             front
             ,
             her
             looke
             on
             ground
             did
             he
             .
          
           
             Her
             left
             hand
             held
             abroad
             a
             regal
             scepter
             ,
          
           
             The
             Lydian
             buskin
             fit
             places
             kept
             her
             .
          
           
             And
             first
             he
             said
             ,
             when
             will
             thy
             loue
             be
             spent
             ?
          
           
             O
             Poet
             carelesse
             of
             thy
             argument
             .
          
           
             Wyne-bibbing
             banquets
             tell
             thy
             naughtinesse
             ,
          
           
             Each
             crosse
             waies
             corner
             doth
             as
             much
             expresse
             .
          
           
             Oft
             some
             points
             at
             the
             prophet
             passing
             by
             ,
          
           
             And
             this
             is
             he
             whom
             fierce
             loue
             burnes
             ,
             they
             cry
             ,
          
           
             A
             laughing
             stock
             thou
             art
             to
             all
             the
             citty
             ,
          
           
             While
             without
             shame
             thou
             sing'st
             thy
             lewdnesse
             ditty
             .
          
           
           
             Ti
             's
             time
             to
             moue
             graue
             things
             in
             lofty
             stile
             ,
          
           
             Long
             hast
             thou
             loyterd
             ,
             greater
             workes
             compile
             .
          
           
             The
             subiect
             hides
             thy
             wit
             ,
             mens
             acts
             resound
             ,
          
           
             This
             thou
             wilt
             say
             to
             be
             a
             worthy
             ground
             .
          
           
             Thy
             muse
             hath
             played
             what
             may
             mild
             girles
             content
             ,
          
           
             And
             by
             those
             numbers
             is
             thy
             first
             youth
             spent
             ,
          
           
             Now
             giue
             the
             Roman
             Tragedy
             a
             name
             ,
          
           
             To
             fill
             my
             lawes
             thy
             wanton
             spirit
             frame
             ,
          
           
             This
             saied
             ,
             she
             mou'd
             her
             buskins
             gaily
             varnisht
             ,
          
           
             And
             seauen
             time
             shook
             her
             head
             with
             thick
             locks
             garnisht
          
           
             The
             other
             smilde
             ,
             (
             I
             wot
             )
             with
             wanton
             eyes
             ,
          
           
             Erre
             I
             ?
             or
             mittele
             in
             her
             right
             hand
             lyes
             ,
          
           
             With
             lofty
             wordes
             stout
             Tragedy
             (
             she
             said
             )
          
           
             Why
             treadst
             me
             downe
             ?
             art
             thou
             aye
             grauely
             played
             ?
          
           
             Thou
             dignest
             vnequall
             lines
             should
             thee
             rehearse
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             fightst
             against
             me
             vsing
             mine
             owne
             verse
             .
          
           
             Thy
             lofty
             stile
             with
             mine
             I
             not
             compare
             ,
          
           
             Small
             doores
             vnfitting
             for
             large
             houses
             are
             .
          
           
             Light
             am
             I
             ,
             and
             with
             thee
             ,
             my
             care
             ,
             light
             loue
             ,
          
           
             Not
             stronger
             am
             I
             ,
             then
             the
             things
             I
             moue
             .
          
           
             Venus
             without
             me
             should
             be
             rusticall
             ,
          
           
             This
             goddesse
             company
             doth
             to
             me
             befall
             .
          
           
             What
             gate
             thy
             stately
             words
             cannot
             vnlocke
             ,
          
           
             My
             flatt'ring
             speeches
             soone
             wide
             open
             knocke
             .
          
           
             And
             I
             deseru●●
             more
             then
             thou
             canst
             in
             verity
             ,
          
           
             By
             suffering
             much
             not
             borne
             by
             thy
             seuerity
             .
          
           
             By
             me
             Corinna
             learnes
             ,
             cousening
             her
             guard
             ,
          
           
             To
             get
             the
             dore
             with
             little
             noyse
             vnbard
             .
          
           
             And
             slipt
             from
             bed
             ,
             cloth'd
             in
             a
             loose
             night-gown
          
           
             To
             moue
             her
             feet
             vnheard
             in
             siting
             down
             .
          
           
             Ah
             how
             oft
             on
             hard
             doores
             hung
             I
             engrau'd
             ,
          
           
             From
             no
             mans
             reading
             fearing
             to
             be
             fau'd
             .
          
           
           
             But
             till
             the
             keepes
             went
             forth
             ,
             I
             forget
             not
             ,
          
           
             ●he
             maide
             to
             hide
             me
             in
             her
             bosome
             let
             not
             .
          
           
             What
             gift
             with
             me
             was
             on
             her
             birth
             day
             sent
             ,
          
           
             But
             cruelly
             by
             her
             was
             drown'd
             and
             rent
             .
          
           
             First
             of
             thy
             minde
             the
             happy
             seedes
             I
             knew
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             hast
             my
             gift
             ,
             which
             she
             would
             from
             thee
             sue
             .
          
           
             She
             left
             ;
             I
             say'd
             ,
             you
             both
             I
             must
             beseech
             ,
          
           
             To
             empty
             aire
             may
             go
             my
             fearfull
             speech
             .
          
           
             With
             scepters
             ,
             &
             high
             buskins
             ●h
             '
             one
             would
             dresse
             me
             .
          
           
             So
             through
             the
             world
             should
             bright
             renowne
             expresse
             me
             .
          
           
             The
             other
             giues
             my
             loue
             a
             conquering
             name
             ,
          
           
             Come
             therefore
             ,
             and
             to
             long
             verse
             shorter
             frame
             .
          
           
             Grant
             Tragedy
             thy
             Poet
             times
             least
             title
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             labour
             euer
             lasts
             ,
             she
             askes
             but
             little
             .
          
           
             She
             gaue
             me
             leaue
             ,
             soft
             loues
             in
             time
             make
             hast
             .
          
           
             Some
             greater
             worke
             will
             vrge
             me
             on
             at
             last
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             2.
             
          
           
             Ad
             amicam
             cursum
             equoru●●
             spectantem
             .
          
           
             I
             Sit
             not
             here
             the
             noble
             horse
             to
             see
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             whom
             thou
             fauourst
             ,
             pray
             may
             conquerour
             be
             .
          
           
             To
             sit
             ,
             and
             talke
             with
             thee
             I
             hether
             came
             .
          
           
             That
             thou
             mayst
             know
             with
             loue
             thou
             mak'st
             me
             flame
             .
          
           
             Thou
             view'st
             the
             course
             ,
             I
             thee
             :
             let
             either
             heede
             ,
          
           
             What
             please
             them
             ,
             and
             their
             eyes
             let
             either
             feede
             .
          
           
             What
             horse-driuer
             thou
             fauourst
             most
             is
             best
             ,
          
           
             Because
             on
             him
             thy
             care
             doth
             hap
             to
             rest
             .
          
           
             Such
             chance
             let
             me
             haue
             :
             I
             would
             brauely
             runne
             ,
          
           
             On
             swift
             steedes
             mounted
             till
             the
             race
             were
             done
             .
          
           
             Now
             would
             I
             slacke
             the
             reines
             ,
             now
             lash
             her
             hide
             ,
          
           
             With
             wheles
             bent
             inward
             now
             the
             ring-turne
             ride
             .
          
           
           
             In
             running
             if
             I
             see
             thee
             ,
             I
             shall
             stay
             ,
          
           
             And
             from
             my
             hands
             the
             reines
             will
             slip
             away
             .
          
           
             Ah
             Pelpos
             from
             his
             coach
             was
             almost
             feld
             ,
          
           
             Hippodameias
             lookes
             while
             he
             beheld
             .
          
           
             Yet
             he
             attain'd
             by
             her
             support
             to
             haue
             her
             ,
          
           
             Let
             vs
             all
             conquer
             by
             our
             mistris
             fauour
             .
          
           
             In
             vaine
             why
             flyest
             backe
             ?
             force
             conioyns
             vs
             now
             :
          
           
             The
             places
             lawes
             this
             benifit
             alow
             ,
          
           
             But
             spare
             my
             wench
             thou
             at
             her
             right
             hand
             seated
             ,
          
           
             By
             thy
             sides
             touching
             ill
             she
             is
             intreated
             .
          
           
             And
             sit
             thou
             rounder
             ,
             that
             behind
             vs
             see
             ,
          
           
             For
             shame
             presse
             not
             her
             backe
             with
             thy
             hard
             knee
             .
          
           
             But
             on
             the
             ground
             thy
             cloaths
             too
             loosely
             lye
             ,
          
           
             Gat
             her
             them
             vp
             ,
             or
             lift
             them
             loe
             will
             I.
          
           
             Enuious
             garments
             so
             good
             legges
             to
             hide
             ,
          
           
             The
             more
             thou
             look'st
             ,
             the
             more
             the
             gowne
             enuide
             .
          
           
             Swift
             Atalantas
             flying
             legges
             like
             these
             ,
          
           
             Wish
             in
             his
             hands
             graspt
             did
             Hippomines
             .
          
           
             Coate-tuckt
             Dianàs
             legges
             are
             painted
             like
             them
             ,
          
           
             When
             strong
             wild
             beasts
             ,
             she
             stronger
             hunts
             to
             strike
             thē
             ,
          
           
             Ere
             these
             were
             seene
             ,
             I
             burnt
             :
             what
             will
             these
             do
             ?
          
           
             Flames
             into
             flame
             ,
             flouds
             thou
             powerst
             seas
             into
             .
          
           
             By
             these
             I
             iudge
             delight
             me
             may
             the
             rest
             ,
          
           
             Which
             lie
             hid
             vnder
             her
             thinne
             veile
             supprest
             .
          
           
             Yet
             in
             the
             meane
             time
             wilt
             small
             windes
             bestow
             ,
          
           
             That
             from
             thy
             fanne
             ,
             mou'd
             by
             my
             hand
             may
             blow
             .
          
           
             Or
             if
             my
             heate
             ,
             of
             minde
             ,
             not
             of
             the
             skie
             ?
          
           
             I'
             st
             woements
             loue
             my
             captiue
             brest
             doth
             frie
             ?
          
           
             While
             thus
             I
             speake
             ,
             blacke
             dust
             her
             white
             robes
             ray
             :
          
           
             Foule
             dust
             ,
             from
             her
             faire
             body
             go
             away
             .
          
           
             Now
             comes
             the
             pompe
             ;
             themselues
             let
             all
             men
             cheere
             :
          
           
             The
             shout
             is
             nigh
             ;
             the
             golden
             pompe
             comes
             heere
             .
          
           
           
             First
             victory
             is
             brought
             with
             large
             spread
             wing
             ,
          
           
             Goddesse
             come
             heere
             ,
             make
             my
             loue
             conquering
             .
          
           
             Applaud
             you
             Neptune
             ,
             that
             dare
             trust
             his
             waue
             ,
          
           
             The
             sea
             I
             vse
             not
             :
             me
             my
             earth
             must
             haue
             .
          
           
             Souldier
             applaud
             thy
             Mars
             ,
             no
             warrs
             we
             mone
             ,
          
           
             Peace
             pleaseth
             me
             ,
             and
             in
             mid
             peace
             is
             lone
             .
          
           
             With
             
               Augures
               Phaebus
               ,
               Phaebe
            
             with
             hunters
             standes
             .
          
           
             To
             thee
             Minerua
             turne
             the
             crafts-mens
             hands
             .
          
           
             Ceres
             and
             Bacchus
             Country-men
             adore
             ,
          
           
             Champions
             pleace
             
               Poll●●●
               ,
               Castor
            
             loues
             horsemen
             more
             .
          
           
             Thee
             gentle
             Venus
             ,
             and
             the
             boy
             that
             flies
             ,
          
           
             We
             praise
             ,
             great
             goddesse
             ayde
             my
             enterprize
             .
          
           
             Let
             my
             new
             mistris
             graunt
             to
             be
             beloued
             ,
          
           
             She
             beckt
             ,
             and
             prosperous
             signes
             gaue
             as
             she
             moued
             .
          
           
             What
             Venus
             promis'd
             ,
             promise
             thou
             we
             pray
          
           
             Greater
             then
             her
             ,
             by
             her
             leaue
             th'
             art
             ,
             I
             le
             say
             .
          
           
             The
             Gods
             ,
             and
             their
             rich-pompe
             witnesse
             with
             me
             ,
          
           
             For
             euermore
             thou
             shalt
             my
             mistres
             be
             .
          
           
             Thy
             legges
             hang-downe
             ,
             thou
             maiest
             ,
             if
             that
             be
             best
             ,
          
           
             Or
             while
             thy
             tiptoes
             on
             the
             foot-stoole
             rest
             .
          
           
             Now
             greatest
             spectacles
             the
             Praector
             sends
             ,
          
           
             Fower-chariot
             horses
             from
             the
             lists
             euen
             ends
             ,
          
           
             I
             see
             whom
             thou
             affectest
             :
             he
             shall
             subdue
             ,
          
           
             The
             horses
             seeme
             ,
             as
             they
             desire
             thy
             knewe
             .
          
           
             Alas
             he
             runnes
             too
             farre
             about
             the
             ring
             ,
          
           
             What
             doest
             ?
             thy
             wagon
             in
             lesse
             compasse
             bring
             .
          
           
             What
             dost
             vnhappy
             ?
             her
             good
             wishes
             fade
             ,
          
           
             Let
             with
             strong
             hand
             the
             reine
             to
             bend
             be
             made
             .
          
           
             One
             flowe
             we
             fauour
             ,
             Romans
             him
             reuoke
             :
          
           
             And
             each
             giue
             signes
             by
             casting
             vp
             his
             cloake
             .
          
           
             They
             call
             him
             backe
             ,
             least
             their
             gownes
             tosse
             thy
             haire
             ,
          
           
             To
             hide
             thee
             in
             my
             bosome
             strait
             repaire
             .
          
           
           
             But
             now
             againe
             the
             barriers
             open
             lye
             ;
          
           
             And
             forth
             the
             gay
             troupes
             on
             swift
             horses
             flie
             .
          
           
             As
             last
             now
             conquer
             ,
             and
             out-runne
             the
             rest
             :
          
           
             My
             mistris
             with
             confirme
             with
             my
             request
             .
          
           
             My
             mistris
             hath
             her
             wish
             ,
             my
             wish
             remaine
             :
          
           
             He
             holds
             the
             palme
             :
             my
             palme
             is
             yet
             to
             gaine
             .
          
           
             She
             smilde
             ,
             and
             with
             quicke-eyes
             behight
             some
             grace
             ▪
          
           
             Pay
             it
             not
             heere
             ,
             but
             in
             an
             other
             place
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             13.
             
          
           
             De
             amica
             ,
             quae
             periur
             auerat
             .
          
           
             VVHat
             are
             there
             Gods
             ?
             her selfe
             she
             hath
             forswort
             ,
          
           
             And
             yet
             remaines
             the
             face
             she
             had
             before
             .
          
           
             How
             long
             her
             lockes
             were
             ere
             her
             oath
             she
             tooke
             :
          
           
             So
             long
             they
             be
             ,
             since
             she
             her
             faith
             forsooke
             .
          
           
             Faire
             white
             with
             rose
             red
             was
             before
             commixt
             :
          
           
             Now
             shine
             her
             lookes
             pure
             white
             and
             red
             betwixt
             .
          
           
             Her
             foote
             was
             small
             :
             her
             footes
             forme
             is
             most
             fit
             ▪
          
           
             Comely
             tall
             was
             she
             ,
             comely
             tall
             shee
             's
             yet
             .
          
           
             Sharpe
             eyes
             she
             had
             :
             radiant
             like
             starrs
             they
             be
             ,
          
           
             By
             which
             she
             periurd
             oft
             hath
             lyed
             by
             me
             .
          
           
             Insooth
             th'
             eternall
             powers
             grant
             maides
             society
             .
          
           
             Falsely
             to
             sware
             ,
             their
             beauty
             hath
             some
             diety
             .
          
           
             By
             her
             eyes
             I
             remember
             late
             she
             swore
             ,
          
           
             And
             by
             mine
             eyes
             ,
             and
             mine
             were
             pained
             sore
             .
          
           
             Say
             Gods
             :
             if
             she
             vnpunisht
             you
             deceiue
             ,
          
           
             For
             others
             faults
             why
             do
             I
             losse
             receiue
             .
          
           
             But
             did
             you
             not
             so
             enuy
             Cepheus
             daughter
             ,
          
           
             For
             her
             ill-beautious
             mother
             iudg'd
             to
             slaughter
             .
          
           
             T'
             is
             not
             enough
             ,
             she
             shakes
             your
             record
             off
             ,
          
           
             And
             vnreueng'd
             mockt
             Gods
             with
             me
             doth
             scoffe
             .
          
           
           
             But
             by
             my
             paine
             to
             purge
             her
             periuries
             ,
          
           
             Couzend
             ,
             I
             am
             the
             couzeners
             sacrifice
             .
          
           
             God
             is
             a
             name
             ,
             no
             substance
             ,
             fear'd
             in
             vaine
             ,
          
           
             And
             doth
             the
             world
             in
             fond
             beliefe
             deteine
             .
          
           
             Or
             if
             there
             be
             a
             God
             ,
             he
             loues
             fine
             wenches
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             thinges
             too
             much
             in
             their
             sole
             power
             drenches
             .
          
           
             Mars
             girts
             his
             deadly
             sword
             on
             for
             my
             harme
             ,
          
           
             Pallas
             launce
             strikes
             me
             with
             vnconquerd
             arme
             .
          
           
             At
             me
             Apollo
             bends
             his
             pliant
             bow
             ,
          
           
             At
             me
             Ioues
             right-hand
             lightning
             hath
             to
             throw
             .
          
           
             The
             wronged
             Gods
             dread
             faire
             ones
             to
             offend
             ,
          
           
             And
             feare
             those
             ,
             that
             to
             feare
             them
             least
             intend
             .
          
           
             VVho
             now
             will
             care
             the
             Altars
             to
             persume
             ?
          
           
             Tut
             ,
             men
             should
             not
             their
             courage
             so
             consume
             .
          
           
             Ioue
             throwes
             downe
             woods
             ,
             and
             Castles
             with
             his
             fire
             ,
          
           
             But
             bids
             his
             darts
             from
             periur'd
             girles
             retire
             .
          
           
             Poore
             Semele
             among
             so
             many
             burned
             .
          
           
             Her
             owne
             request
             to
             her
             owne
             torment
             turn'd
             .
          
           
             But
             when
             her
             louer
             came
             ,
             had
             she
             drawne
             back
             ,
          
           
             The
             fathers
             thigh
             should
             vnborne
             Bacchus
             lack
             ,
          
           
             VVhy
             grieue
             I
             ?
             and
             of
             heauen
             reproches
             pen
             ?
          
           
             The
             Gods
             haue
             eyes
             ,
             and
             breasts
             as
             well
             as
             men
             .
          
           
             VVere
             I
             a
             God
             ,
             I
             should
             giue
             women
             leaue
             ,
          
           
             VVith
             lying
             lips
             my
             God-head
             to
             deceaue
             .
          
           
             My selfe
             would
             sweare
             the
             wenches
             true
             did
             sheare
             ,
          
           
             And
             I
             would
             be
             none
             of
             the
             Gods
             seuere
             .
          
           
             But
             yet
             their
             gift
             more
             moderately
             vse
             ,
          
           
             Or
             in
             mine
             eyes
             good
             wench
             no
             paine
             transfuse
             ,
          
        
         
           
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             4.
             
          
           
             Ad
             virum
             seruantem
             coniugem
             .
          
           
             RVde
             man
             ,
             't
             is
             vaine
             ,
             thy
             damsell
             to
             commend
             ,
          
           
             To
             keepers
             trust
             ;
             their
             wits
             should
             them
             defend
             .
          
           
             Who
             ,
             without
             feare
             ,
             is
             chast
             :
             is
             chast
             in
             sooth
             :
          
           
             Who
             ,
             because
             meanes
             want
             ,
             doeth
             not
             she
             doth
             .
          
           
             Though
             thou
             her
             body
             guard
             ,
             her
             minde
             is
             staind
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             ,
             least
             she
             will
             ,
             can
             any
             be
             restrainde
             .
          
           
             Nor
             canst
             by
             watching
             keepe
             her
             minde
             from
             sinne
             ,
          
           
             All
             being
             shut
             out
             ,
             th'
             adulterer
             is
             within
             .
          
           
             Who
             may
             offend
             ,
             sinnes
             least
             ;
             power
             to
             do
             ill
             ,
          
           
             The
             fainting
             feedes
             of
             naughtinesse
             doth
             kill
             .
          
           
             Forbeare
             to
             kindle
             vice
             by
             prohibition
             ,
          
           
             Sooner
             shall
             kindnesse
             gaine
             thy
             wills
             fruition
             .
          
           
             I
             saw
             a
             horse
             against
             the
             bitte
             stiffe-neckt
             ,
          
           
             Like
             lightning
             go
             ,
             his
             strugling
             mouth
             being
             checkt
             .
          
           
             When
             he
             perceiu'd
             the
             raines
             ler
             slack
             ,
             he
             stayd
             ,
          
           
             And
             on
             his
             loose
             mane
             the
             loose
             bridle
             laid
             .
          
           
             How
             to
             attaine
             ,
             what
             is
             denyed
             ,
             we
             thinke
             ,
          
           
             Euen
             as
             the
             sick
             desire
             forbidden
             drinke
             .
          
           
             Argus
             had
             either
             way
             an
             hundred
             eyes
             .
          
           
             Yet
             by
             deceit
             loue
             did
             them
             all
             surprize
             ,
          
           
             In
             stone
             ,
             and
             yron
             walles
             Dana●
             shut
             ,
          
           
             Come
             forth
             a
             mother
             ,
             though
             a
             maide
             there
             put
             .
          
           
             Penelope
             ,
             though
             no
             watch
             look'd
             vnto
             her
             ,
          
           
             Was
             not
             defil'd
             by
             any
             gallant
             wooer
             .
          
           
             What
             's
             kept
             ,
             we
             couet
             more
             :
             the
             care
             makes
             theft
             ,
          
           
             Few
             loue
             ,
             what
             others
             haue
             vnguarded
             left
             .
          
           
             Nor
             doth
             her
             face
             please
             ,
             but
             her
             husbands
             loue
             ;
          
           
             I
             know
             not
             ,
             what
             men
             thinke
             should
             thee
             so
             moue
             .
          
           
           
             She
             is
             not
             chast
             that
             keepes
             away
             her
             loue
             .
          
           
             Thy
             feare
             ,
             is
             then
             her
             body
             ,
             valued
             more
             .
          
           
             Although
             thou
             chafe
             ,
             stolne
             pleasure
             is
             sweet
             play
             ,
          
           
             She
             pleaseth
             best
             ,
             I
             feare
             ,
             if
             any
             say
             .
          
           
             A
             free-borne
             wench
             ,
             no
             right
             't
             is
             vp
             to
             lock
             ,
          
           
             So
             vse
             we
             women
             of
             strange
             nations
             stock
             .
          
           
             Because
             the
             keeper
             may
             come
             say
             ,
             I
             did
             it
             ,
          
           
             She
             must
             be
             honest
             to
             thy
             seruants
             credit
             .
          
           
             He
             is
             too
             clownish
             ,
             whom
             a
             lewd
             wife
             grieues
             ,
          
           
             And
             this
             townes
             well
             knowne
             custome
             not
             beleeues
             .
          
           
             Where
             Mars
             his
             sonnes
             not
             without
             fault
             did
             breed
             ,
          
           
             Romus
             and
             
               Romulus
               ,
               Ilias
            
             twine-borne
             feed
             .
          
           
             Cannot
             a
             faire
             one
             ,
             if
             not
             chast
             ,
             please
             thee
             ?
          
           
             Neuer
             can
             these
             by
             any
             meanes
             agree
             .
          
           
             Kindly
             thy
             mistresse
             vse
             ,
             if
             thou
             be
             wise
             ,
          
           
             Looke
             gently
             ,
             and
             rough
             husbands
             lawes
             despise
             .
          
           
             Honour
             what
             friends
             ,
             thy
             wife
             giues
             ,
             shee
             le
             giue
             many
             ,
          
           
             Least
             labour
             thou
             shalt
             winne
             great
             grace
             of
             any
             ,
          
           
             So
             shalt
             thou
             go
             with
             youths
             to
             feasts
             together
             ,
          
           
             And
             see
             at
             home
             much
             ,
             that
             thou
             nere
             brought'st
             thither
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             5.
             
          
           
             Ad
             amnem
             dum
             iter
             faceret
             ad
             amicam
             .
          
           
             FLoud
             with
             red-growne
             slime
             bankes
             ,
             till
             I
             be
             past
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             waters
             stay
             :
             I
             to
             my
             mistresse
             hast
             .
          
           
             Thou
             hast
             no
             bridge
             ,
             nor
             boate
             with
             roapes
             to
             throw
             ,
          
           
             That
             may
             transport
             me
             without
             oares
             to
             row
             .
          
           
             Thee
             I
             haue
             pass'd
             and
             knew
             thy
             streame
             none
             such
             ,
          
           
             When
             thy
             waues
             brim
             did
             scarse
             my
             ankles
             touch
             .
          
           
             With
             snow
             thaw'd
             from
             the
             next
             hill
             now
             thou
             rushest
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             thy
             fowie
             deepe
             waters
             thick
             thou
             rush●st
             .
          
           
           
             What
             helpes
             my
             hast
             :
             what
             to
             haue
             tare
             small
             rest
             ?
          
           
             What
             day
             and
             night
             to
             trauaile
             in
             her
             quest
             ?
          
           
             If
             standing
             here
             I
             can
             by
             no
             meanes
             ger
             ,
          
           
             My
             foote
             vpon
             the
             further
             banke
             to
             set
             .
          
           
             Now
             wish
             I
             those
             wings
             noble
             Perseus
             had
             ,
          
           
             Bearing
             the
             head
             with
             dreadfull
             arrowes
             clad
             ,
          
           
             Now
             wish
             the
             chariot
             ,
             whence
             corne
             fields
             were
             found
             ,
          
           
             First
             to
             be
             throwne
             vpon
             the
             vntill'd
             ground
             ,
          
           
             I
             speake
             old
             Poets
             wonderfull
             inuentions
             ,
          
           
             Nere
             was
             ,
             nor
             shall
             be
             ,
             what
             my
             verse
             mentions
             .
          
           
             Rather
             thou
             large
             banke
             ouer-flowing
             riuer
             ,
          
           
             Slide
             in
             thy
             bounds
             ,
             so
             shalt
             thou
             runne
             for
             euer
             .
          
           
             (
             Trust
             me
             )
             land-streame
             thou
             shalt
             no
             enuie
             lack
             ,
          
           
             If
             I
             a
             louer
             be
             by
             thee
             held
             back
             .
          
           
             Great
             flouds
             ought
             to
             assist
             young
             men
             in
             loue
             ,
          
           
             Great
             flouds
             the
             force
             of
             it
             do
             often
             ptoue
             .
          
           
             In
             mid
             
             Bithyma'tis
             said
             Inachus
             ,
          
           
             Grew
             pale
             ,
             and
             in
             cold
             foords
             not
             lecherous
             .
          
           
             Troy
             had
             not
             yet
             bene
             ten
             yeares
             siege
             out-stander
             ,
          
           
             When
             nimph
             -
             Neaera
             rapt
             thy
             lookes
             Scamander
             .
          
           
             What
             ?
             not
             Alpheus
             in
             strange
             lands
             to
             runne
             ,
          
           
             Th'
             Arcadian
             Virgins
             constant
             loue
             hath
             wonne
             ?
          
           
             And
             Crusa
             vnto
             Zanthas
             first
             asside
             ,
          
           
             They
             say
             Peneus
             neere
             Phithias
             towne
             did
             hide
             .
          
           
             What
             should
             I
             name
             Aesope
             ,
             that
             Thebe
             lou'd
             ,
          
           
             Thebe
             who
             mother
             of
             fiue
             daughters
             prou'd
             .
          
           
             If
             Achelous
             ,
             I
             aske
             where
             thy
             hornes
             stand
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             sayest
             broke
             with
             Aloides
             angry
             hand
             .
          
           
             Not
             Calyd●n
             ,
             nor
             Aetolia
             did
             please
             ,
          
           
             One
             Deianirae
             was
             more
             worth
             then
             these
             .
          
           
             Rich
             Nile
             by
             seuen
             mouthes
             to
             the
             west
             sea
             flowing
             ,
          
           
             Who
             so
             well
             keepes
             his
             waters
             head
             from
             knowing
             .
          
           
           
             Is
             by
             Euadne
             thought
             to
             take
             such
             flame
             ,
          
           
             As
             his
             deep
             whirle-pooles
             could
             not
             quench
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             Dry
             
               Enipeus
               ,
               Tyro
            
             to
             embrace
             ,
          
           
             Fly
             back
             his
             shame
             charg'd
             ,
             the
             streame
             charg'd
             ,
             gaue
             place
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             passe
             I
             thee
             ,
             who
             hollow
             rocks
             downe
             tumbling
             ,
          
           
             In
             Tiburs
             field
             with
             watry
             some
             are
             rumbling
             .
          
           
             Whom
             Ilia
             pleas'd
             ,
             though
             in
             her
             lookes
             griefe
             reueld
             ,
          
           
             Her
             cheekes
             were
             scratcht
             ,
             her
             goodly
             ha●es
             discheueld
             .
          
           
             She
             wailing
             Mars
             sinne
             ,
             and
             her
             vncles
             crime
             ,
          
           
             Strayd
             bare-foote
             through
             sole
             places
             on
             a
             time
             .
          
           
             Her
             ,
             from
             his
             swift
             waues
             ,
             the
             bold
             floud
             perceau'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             from
             the
             mid
             foord
             his
             hoarse
             voyce
             vpheau'd
             ,
          
           
             Saying
             why
             sadly
             tread'st
             my
             bankes
             vpon
             ,
          
           
             Ilia
             ,
             
               sprung
               from
            
             Idaean
             Laomedon
             ?
          
           
             Where
             's
             thy
             attire
             ?
             why
             wand'rest
             heere
             alc●e
             ?
          
           
             To
             stay
             thy
             tresses
             white
             veyle
             hast
             thou
             none
             ?
          
           
             Why
             weep'st
             ?
             and
             spoil'st
             with
             teares
             thy
             watry
             eyes
             ?
          
           
             And
             fiercely
             knock'st
             thy
             brest
             that
             open
             lyes
             ?
          
           
             His
             heart
             consists
             of
             slint
             ,
             and
             hardest
             steele
             ,
          
           
             That
             seeing
             thy
             teares
             can
             any
             ioy
             then
             feele
             .
          
           
             Feare
             not
             :
             to
             thee
             our
             Court
             stands
             open
             wide
             ,
          
           
             There
             shalt
             be
             lou'd
             ;
             Ilia
             lay
             feare
             aside
             .
          
           
             Thou
             ore
             a
             hundreth
             Nimphes
             ,
             or
             more
             shalt
             raigne
             .
          
           
             For
             sine
             score
             Nimpher
             ,
             or
             more
             our
             flouds
             conteine
             .
          
           
             Not
             Romane
             stock
             scorne
             me
             so
             much
             (
             I
             craue
             ,
             )
          
           
             Gifts
             then
             my
             promise
             greater
             thou
             shalt
             haue
             .
          
           
             This
             said
             he
             :
             she
             her
             modest
             eyes
             held
             downe
             ,
          
           
             Her
             wofull
             bosome
             a
             warme
             shower
             did
             drowne
             .
          
           
             Thrice
             she
             prepar'd
             to
             flie
             ,
             thrice
             she
             did
             stay
             ,
          
           
             By
             seare
             deptiu'd
             of
             strength
             to
             runne
             away
             .
          
           
             Yet
             rending
             with
             enraged
             thumbe
             her
             tresses
             ,
          
           
             Her
             trembling
             mouth
             these
             vnmeet
             foundes
             expresses
             .
          
           
           
             O
             would
             in
             my
             fore-fathers
             tombe
             deepe
             layde
             ,
          
           
             My
             bones
             had
             bene
             ,
             while
             yet
             I
             was
             a
             maide
             ,
          
           
             Why
             being
             a
             vestall
             am
             I
             wooed
             to
             wed
             ,
          
           
             Deflowr'd
             and
             stamed
             in
             vnlawfull
             bed
             .
          
           
             Why
             stay
             I
             ?
             men
             point
             at
             me
             for
             a
             whore
             ,
          
           
             Shame
             ,
             that
             should
             make
             me
             blush
             ,
             I
             haue
             no
             more
             .
          
           
             This
             said
             :
             her
             coate
             ,
             hood-winckt
             her
             fearefull
             eyes
             ,
          
           
             And
             into
             water
             desperately
             she
             flies
             .
          
           
             T'
             is
             said
             the
             slippery
             streame
             held
             vp
             her
             brest
             ,
          
           
             And
             kindly
             gaue
             her
             ,
             what
             she
             liked
             best
             .
          
           
             And
             I
             beleeue
             some
             wench
             thou
             hast
             affected
             ,
          
           
             But
             woods
             and
             groues
             keepe
             your
             faults
             vndetected
             .
          
           
             While
             thus
             I
             speake
             ,
             the
             waters
             more
             abounded
             ,
          
           
             And
             from
             the
             channell
             all
             abroad
             surrounded
             .
          
           
             Mad
             streame
             ,
             why
             doest
             our
             mu●uallioyes
             deferre
             ?
          
           
             Clowne
             ,
             from
             my
             iourney
             why
             doest
             me
             deterre
             ?
          
           
             How
             wouldst
             thou
             flow
             wert
             thou
             a
             noble
             floud
             ?
          
           
             If
             thy
             great
             same
             in
             euery
             region
             stood
             .
          
           
             Thou
             hast
             no
             name
             ,
             but
             com'st
             from
             snowy
             mountaines
             ,
          
           
             No
             certaine
             house
             thou
             hast
             ,
             nor
             any
             fountaines
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             springs
             are
             nought
             but
             raine
             aud
             melted
             snow
             ,
          
           
             Which
             wealth
             ,
             cold
             winter
             doth
             on
             thee
             beftow
             .
          
           
             Either
             th'
             art
             muddy
             in
             mid
             winter
             tide
             ,
          
           
             Or
             full
             of
             dust
             doest
             on
             the
             dry
             earth
             slide
             .
          
           
             What
             thirsty
             traueller
             euer
             drunke
             of
             thee
             ?
          
           
             Who
             sayd
             with
             gratefull
             voyce
             perpetuall
             be
             ?
          
           
             Harmefull
             to
             beasts
             ,
             and
             to
             the
             fields
             thou
             proues
             ,
          
           
             Perchance
             these
             ,
             others
             me
             mine
             owne
             losse
             mooues
             .
          
           
             To
             this
             I
             fondly
             loues
             of
             flouds
             told
             plainely
             ,
          
           
             I
             shame
             so
             great
             names
             to
             haue
             vs'd
             so
             vainly
             .
          
           
             I
             know
             not
             what
             expecting
             ,
             I
             ere
             while
             ,
          
           
             Nam'd
             Achelaus
             ,
             Inachus
             ,
             and
             Ii●
             ,
          
           
           
             But
             for
             thy
             merits
             I
             wish
             thee
             ,
             white
             streame
             ,
          
           
             Dry
             winters
             aye
             ,
             and
             sunnes
             in
             heare
             extreame
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             6.
             
          
           
             Quod
             ah
             amica
             receptus
             ,
             cum
             ea
             coire
             non
             potuit
             ,
             conqueritur
             .
          
           
             EIther
             she
             was
             soule
             ,
             or
             her
             attire
             was
             bad
             ,
          
           
             Or
             she
             was
             not
             the
             wench
             I
             wish
             t'
             haue
             had
             .
          
           
             Idly
             I
             lay
             with
             her
             ,
             as
             if
             I
             lou'd
             not
             ,
          
           
             And
             like
             a
             burthen
             grieu'd
             the
             bed
             that
             mou'd
             not
             .
          
           
             Though
             both
             of
             vs
             perform'd
             our
             true
             intent
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             could
             I
             not
             cast
             anchor
             where
             I
             meant
             .
          
           
             She
             on
             my
             neck
             her
             Iuory
             armes
             did
             throw
             ,
          
           
             Her
             armes
             fa●re
             wither
             ,
             then
             the
             Sythian
             snow
             .
          
           
             And
             eagerly
             she
             kist
             me
             with
             her
             tongue
             ,
          
           
             And
             vnder
             mine
             her
             wanton
             thigh
             she
             flung
             .
          
           
             Yea
             ,
             and
             she
             sooth'd
             me
             vp
             ,
             and
             call'd
             me
             fire
             ,
          
           
             And
             vs'd
             all
             speach
             that
             might
             prouoke
             and
             ●●re
             .
          
           
             Yet
             like
             as
             if
             cold
             Hemlock
             I
             had
             drunke
             ,
          
           
             It
             mocked
             me
             ,
             hung
             downe
             the
             head
             and
             sunke
             .
          
           
             Like
             a
             dull
             Cipher
             ,
             or
             rude
             block
             I
             lay
             ,
          
           
             Or
             shade
             ,
             or
             body
             was
             I
             who
             can
             say
             ?
          
           
             What
             will
             my
             age
             do
             ?
             age
             I
             cannot
             shunne
             ,
          
           
             When
             in
             my
             prime
             my
             force
             is
             spent
             and
             done
             .
          
           
             I
             blush
             ,
             that
             being
             youthfull
             ,
             hot
             ,
             and
             lustie
             ,
          
           
             I
             proue
             neither
             youth
             nor
             man
             ,
             but
             old
             and
             rustie
             .
          
           
             Pure
             rose
             she
             ,
             like
             a
             Nunne
             to
             sacrifice
             ,
          
           
             Or
             one
             that
             with
             her
             tender
             brother
             lyes
             .
          
           
             Yet
             boorded
             I
             the
             golden
             Chie
             twise
             ,
          
           
             And
             Libas
             ,
             and
             the
             white
             cheekt
             Pitho
             th●i●e
             .
          
           
             Corinna
             crau'd
             it
             in
             a
             summers
             night
             .
          
           
           
             And
             nine
             sweete
             bowts
             we
             had
             before
             day-light
             .
          
           
             What
             wast
             my
             limbs
             through
             some
             Thessalian
             charmes
             ?
          
           
             May
             spells
             ,
             and
             drugges
             do
             silly
             soules
             such
             harmes
             ?
          
           
             With
             virgin
             waxe
             hath
             some
             imbast
             my
             ioynts
             ?
          
           
             And
             pierc'd
             my
             liuer
             with
             sharp
             needlesse
             points
             ?
          
           
             Charmes
             change
             corne
             to
             grasse
             and
             make
             it
             die
             ,
          
           
             By
             charmes
             are
             running
             springs
             and
             fountaines
             dry
             .
          
           
             By
             charmes
             mast
             drops
             from
             oakes
             ,
             from
             vines
             grapes
             fall
             ,
          
           
             And
             fruite
             from
             trees
             when
             ther
             's
             no
             winde
             at
             all
             .
          
           
             Why
             might
             not
             then
             my
             sinewes
             be
             inchaunted
             ?
          
           
             And
             I
             grow
             faint
             as
             with
             some
             spirit
             haunted
             .
          
           
             To
             this
             add
             shame
             :
             shame
             to
             performe
             it
             quaild
             me
             ,
          
           
             And
             was
             the
             second
             cause
             why
             vigour
             failde
             me
             .
          
           
             My
             idle
             thoughts
             delighted
             her
             no
             more
             ,
          
           
             Then
             did
             the
             robe
             or
             garment
             which
             she
             wore
             .
          
           
             Yet
             might
             her
             touch
             make
             youthfull
             Pylius
             fire
             ,
          
           
             And
             Tythou
             liuelier
             then
             his
             yeares
             require
             .
          
           
             Euen
             her
             I
             had
             ,
             and
             she
             had
             me
             in
             vaine
             ,
          
           
             What
             might
             I
             craue
             more
             ,
             if
             I
             aske
             agaiie
             ?
          
           
             I
             thinke
             the
             great
             gods
             grieu'd
             they
             had
             bestow'd
             ,
          
           
             The
             benefite
             :
             which
             lewdly
             I
             fore-slow'd
             .
          
           
             I
             wisht
             to
             be
             receiued
             in
             ,
             in
             I
             get
             me
             ,
          
           
             To
             kisse
             ,
             I
             kisse
             :
             to
             lie
             with
             her
             she
             let
             me
             .
          
           
             Why
             was
             I
             blest
             ?
             why
             made
             King
             to
             refuse
             it
             ?
          
           
             Chuffe-like
             had
             I
             not
             gold
             and
             could
             not
             vse
             it
             ?
          
           
             So
             in
             a
             spring
             thriues
             he
             that
             told
             so
             much
             ,
          
           
             And
             lookes
             vpon
             the
             fruites
             he
             cannot
             touch
             .
          
           
             Hath
             any
             rose
             so
             from
             a
             fresh
             yong
             maide
             ,
          
           
             As
             she
             might
             straight
             haue
             gone
             to
             Church
             and
             praide
             .
          
           
             Well
             I
             beleeue
             ,
             she
             kist
             not
             as
             she
             shonld
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             vs'd
             the
             sleight
             and
             cunning
             which
             she
             could
             .
          
           
             Huge
             oakes
             ,
             hard
             adamants
             might
             she
             haue
             moued
             ,
          
           
           
             And
             with
             sweet
             words
             cause
             deafe
             rocks
             to
             haue
             moued
             ,
          
           
             Worthy
             she
             was
             to
             moue
             both
             gods
             and
             men
             ,
          
           
             But
             neither
             was
             I
             man
             nor
             liued
             then
             .
          
           
             Can
             deafe
             eare
             take
             delight
             when
             Phaemius
             sings
             ?
          
           
             Or
             Thamiris
             in
             curious
             painted
             things
             .
          
           
             What
             sweet
             thought
             is
             there
             but
             I
             had
             the
             same
             ?
          
           
             And
             one
             gaue
             place
             still
             as
             an
             other
             came
             .
          
           
             Yet
             not-withstanding
             like
             one
             dead
             I
             lay
             ,
          
           
             Drouping
             more
             like
             a
             rofe
             puld
             yester-day
             .
          
           
             Now
             when
             he
             should
             not
             iette
             ,
             he
             boults
             vpright
             ,
          
           
             And
             craues
             his
             taske
             ,
             and
             seekes
             to
             be
             at
             fight
             .
          
           
             Lie
             downe
             with
             shame
             and
             see
             thou
             stire
             no
             more
             ,
          
           
             Seeing
             thou
             wouldst
             deceiue
             me
             as
             before
             .
          
           
             Thou
             cosonest
             me
             :
             by
             thee
             surpriz'd
             am
             I
             ,
          
           
             And
             bide
             sore
             losse
             with
             endlesse
             infamy
             .
          
           
             Nay
             more
             the
             wench
             did
             not
             disdaine
             a
             whit
             ,
          
           
             To
             take
             it
             in
             hand
             ,
             and
             play
             with
             it
             .
          
           
             But
             when
             she
             saw
             it
             would
             by
             no
             meanes
             stand
             ,
          
           
             But
             stil
             droupt
             downe
             ,
             regarding
             not
             her
             hand
             .
          
           
             Why
             mockst
             thou
             me
             she
             cryed
             ?
             or
             being
             ill
          
           
             Who
             bad
             thee
             lie
             downe
             heere
             against
             thy
             will
             ?
          
           
             Either
             th'
             art
             witcht
             with
             bloud
             of
             frogs
             now
             dead
             ,
          
           
             Or
             iaded
             camst
             thou
             from
             some
             others
             bed
             .
          
           
             With
             her
             loose
             gowne
             on
             from
             me
             she
             cast
             her
             ,
          
           
             In
             skiping
             out
             her
             naked
             feete
             much
             grac'd
             her
             .
          
           
             And
             least
             her
             maide
             should
             know
             of
             this
             disgrace
             ,
          
           
             To
             couer
             it
             ,
             spilt
             water
             in
             the
             place
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             7.
             
          
           
             Quod
             ab
             amica
             non
             recipiatur
             ,
             dolet
             .
          
           
             VVHat
             man
             will
             now
             take
             liberall
             arts
             in
             hand
             ,
          
           
             Or
             thinke
             soft
             verse
             in
             any
             stead
             to
             stand
             .
          
           
           
             Wit
             was
             some-times
             more
             pretious
             then
             gold
             ,
          
           
             Now
             pouerty
             great
             barbarisme
             we
             hold
             .
          
           
             When
             our
             bookes
             did
             my
             mistris
             faire
             content
             ,
          
           
             I
             might
             not
             go
             ,
             whether
             my
             papers
             went.
          
           
             She
             prais'd
             me
             ,
             yet
             the
             gate
             shut
             fast
             vpon
             her
             ,
          
           
             I
             heere
             and
             there
             go
             witty
             with
             dishonour
             .
          
           
             Se
             a
             rich
             chuffe
             whose
             wounds
             ▪
             great
             wealth
             inferd
             ,
          
           
             For
             blodshed
             knighted
             before
             me
             prefer'd
             .
          
           
             Foole
             cāst
             thou
             him
             in
             thy
             whit
             armes
             embrace
          
           
             Foole
             canst
             thou
             lie
             in
             his
             enfoulding
             space
             ?
          
           
             Know'st
             not
             this
             head
             a
             helm
             was
             wont
             to
             beare
          
           
             This
             side
             that
             serues
             thee
             ,
             a
             sharpe
             sword
             did
             weare
          
           
             His
             left
             hand
             wheron
             gold
             doth
             ill
             alight
          
           
             A
             target
             bore
             ;
             bloud
             sprinckled
             was
             his
             right
             .
          
           
             Canst
             touch
             that
             hād
             wherwith
             sōe
             one
             lie
             dead
             ?
          
           
             Ah
             whether
             is
             thy
             breasts
             soft
             nature
             fled
             ?
          
           
             Behould
             the
             signes
             of
             antient
             fight
             his
             skarres
             ,
          
           
             What
             ere
             he
             hath
             his
             body
             gaind
             in
             warres
             .
          
           
             Perhaps
             hee
             'le
             tell
             how
             oft
             he
             slew
             a
             man
             ,
          
           
             Confessing
             this
             ,
             why
             do'st
             thou
             touch
             him
             than
             ?
          
           
             I
             the
             pure
             preist
             of
             Phaebus
             and
             the
             muses
             ,
          
           
             At
             thy
             deafe
             dores
             in
             verse
             sing
             my
             abuses
             .
          
           
             Not
             what
             we
             slothfull
             knew
             let
             wise
             men
             learne
          
           
             But
             follow
             trembling
             camps
             ,
             and
             battails
             sterne
             .
          
           
             And
             for
             a
             good
             verse
             draw
             the
             first
             dart
             forth
             ,
          
           
             Homer
             without
             this
             shall
             be
             nothing
             worth
             .
          
           
             Ioue
             being
             admōisht
             gold
             had
             soueraigne
             power
          
           
             To
             winne
             the
             maide
             came
             in
             a
             golden
             shewer
             .
          
           
             Till
             then
             ,
             rough
             was
             her
             father
             ,
             she
             seuere
             ,
          
           
             The
             posts
             of
             brasse
             the
             walls
             of
             iron
             were
             ,
          
           
             But
             when
             in
             gifts
             the
             wise
             adulteres
             came
             ,
          
           
             She
             held
             her
             lap
             ope
             to
             receiue
             the
             same
             .
          
           
           
             Yet
             when
             old
             Saturne
             heauens
             rule
             possest
             ,
          
           
             All
             gaine
             in
             darknesse
             the
             deepe
             earth
             supprest
             .
          
           
             Gold
             ,
             siluer
             ,
             irons
             heauey
             weight
             ,
             and
             brasse
             ,
          
           
             In
             hell
             were
             harbourd
             ,
             here
             was
             found
             no
             masse
             .
          
           
             But
             better
             things
             it
             gaue
             ,
             corne
             without
             ploughes
             ,
          
           
             Apples
             ,
             and
             hony
             in
             oakes
             hollow
             boughes
             .
          
           
             With
             strong
             plough
             shares
             no
             man
             the
             earth
             did
             cleaue
          
           
             The
             ditcher
             no
             markes
             on
             the
             ground
             did
             leaue
             .
          
           
             Nor
             hanging
             oares
             the
             troubled
             seas
             did
             sweepe
             ,
          
           
             Men
             kept
             the
             shoare
             ,
             and
             saild
             not
             into
             deepe
             .
          
           
             Against
             thy selfe
             ,
             mans
             nature
             ,
             thou
             wert
             cunning
             ,
          
           
             And
             to
             thine
             owne
             losse
             was
             thy
             wit
             swift
             running
             .
          
           
             Why
             gird'st
             thy
             citties
             with
             a
             towred
             wall
             ,
          
           
             Why
             l●st
             discordant
             hands
             to
             armoun
             fall
             ?
          
           
             What
             doest
             with
             seas
             ?
             with
             th'
             earth
             thou
             wert
             content
             ,
          
           
             Why
             seek'st
             not
             heau'n
             the
             third
             realme
             to
             frequent
             ?
          
           
             Heauen
             thou
             affects
             ,
             with
             Romulus
             ,
             temples
             braue
             ,
          
           
             
               Bacchus
               ,
               Alcides
            
             ,
             and
             now
             Caesar
             haue
             .
             —
          
           
             Gold
             from
             the
             earth
             in
             stead
             of
             fruits
             we
             pluck
             ,
          
           
             Souldiers
             by
             bloud
             to
             be
             inricht
             haue
             lucke
             .
          
           
             Courts
             shut
             the
             poore
             out
             :
             wealth
             giues
             estimation
             ,
          
           
             Thence
             growes
             the
             Iudge
             ,
             and
             knight
             of
             reputation
             .
          
           
             All
             ,
             thee
             possesse
             :
             they
             gouerne
             fields
             ,
             and
             lawes
             ,
          
           
             They
             manadge
             peace
             ,
             and
             raw
             warrs
             bloudy
             iawes
             .
          
           
             Onely
             our
             loues
             let
             not
             such
             rich
             churles
             gaine
             ,
          
           
             T
             is
             well
             ,
             if
             some
             wench
             for
             the
             poore
             remaine
             ,
          
           
             Now
             ,
             
             Sabine-like
             ,
             though
             chast
             she
             seemes
             to
             liue
             ,
          
           
             One
             she
             commands
             ,
             who
             many
             things
             can
             giue
             .
          
           
             For
             me
             ,
             she
             doth
             keeper
             ,
             and
             husband
             feare
             ,
          
           
             If
             I
             should
             giue
             '
             both
             would
             the
             house
             forbeare
             .
          
           
             If
             of
             scornd
             louers
             god
             be
             venger
             iust
             ,
          
           
             O
             let
             him
             change
             goods
             so
             ill
             got
             to
             dust
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             8.
             
          
           
             Tibulli
             mortem
             deflet
             .
          
           
             IF
             Thetis
             ,
             and
             the
             morne
             their
             sonnes
             did
             waile
             ,
          
           
             And
             enuious
             fates
             great
             goddesses
             assaile
             .
          
           
             Sad
             Eeliga
             thy
             wofull
             haires
             vnbinde
             :
          
           
             Ah
             now
             a
             name
             too
             true
             thou
             hast
             ,
             I
             finde
             .
          
           
             Tibullus
             ,
             thy
             works
             Poet
             ,
             and
             thy
             fame
             ,
          
           
             Burnes
             his
             dead
             body
             in
             the
             funerall
             flame
             .
          
           
             Loe
             Cupid
             brings
             his
             quiuer
             spoyled
             quite
             ,
          
           
             His
             broken
             bowe
             his
             fire-brand
             without
             light
             .
          
           
             How
             pitteously
             with
             drouping
             wings
             he
             stands
             ,
          
           
             And
             knocks
             his
             bare
             brest
             with
             selfe-angry
             hands
             .
          
           
             The
             locks
             spred
             on
             his
             necke
             receiue
             his
             teares
             ,
          
           
             And
             shakeing
             sobbes
             his
             mouth
             for
             speaches
             beares
             .
          
           
             So
             at
             Aeneas
             buriall
             men
             report
             ,
          
           
             Faire-fac'd
             Iulius
             he
             went
             forth
             thy
             court
             .
          
           
             And
             Venus
             greiues
             ,
             Tiqullus
             life
             being
             spent
             ,
          
           
             As
             whē
             the
             wild
             bore
             Adonus
             groine
             had
             rent
             .
          
           
             The
             Gods
             care
             we
             are
             cald
             ,
             and
             men
             of
             piety
             ,
          
           
             And
             some
             there
             be
             that
             thinke
             we
             haue
             a
             diety
             .
          
           
             Outragious
             death
             profanes
             all
             holy
             things
             ,
          
           
             And
             one
             all
             creatures
             obscure
             darkenesse
             brings
             .
          
           
             To
             
               Thracean
               Orpheus
            
             what
             did
             parents
             good
             ,
          
           
             Or
             songs
             amazing
             wild
             beasts
             of
             the
             wood
             .
          
           
             Where
             Linus
             by
             his
             father
             Phaebus
             layed
             ,
          
           
             To
             sing
             with
             his
             vequall
             harpe
             is
             sayed
             .
          
           
             See
             Homer
             from
             whose
             fountaine
             euer
             fild
             ,
          
           
             Pierian
             deawe
             to
             Poets
             is
             dislild
             .
          
           
             Him
             the
             last
             day
             in
             blacke
             Auorn
             hath
             drownd
             ,
          
           
             Ve●●ts
             alone
             are
             with
             continuance
             crown'd
             .
          
           
           
             The
             worke
             of
             Poets
             lasts
             Troyes
             labours
             fame
             ,
          
           
             And
             that
             slowe
             webbe
             nights
             fal-shood
             did
             vnframe
             .
          
           
             So
             Nemesis
             ,
             so
             Delia
             famous
             are
             ,
          
           
             The
             one
             his
             first
             loue
             ,
             th'
             other
             his
             new
             care
             .
          
           
             What
             proffit
             to
             vs
             hath
             our
             pure
             life
             bred
             ?
          
           
             What
             to
             haue
             layne
             alone
             in
             empty
             bed
             ?
          
           
             When
             bad
             fates
             take
             good
             men
             ,
             I
             am
             forbod
             ,
          
           
             By
             secret
             thoughts
             to
             thinke
             there
             is
             a
             god
             .
          
           
             Liue
             godly
             thou
             shalt
             die
             though
             honor
             heauen
          
           
             Yet
             shall
             thy
             life
             be
             forcibly
             ,
             bereauen
             .
          
           
             Trust
             in
             good
             verse
             ,
             Tibullus
             feeles
             deaths
             paines
             ,
          
           
             Scarse
             rests
             of
             all
             what
             a
             small
             v●ne
             containes
             ,
          
           
             Thee
             sacred
             Poet
             could
             sad
             flames
             destroy
             ?
          
           
             Nor
             feared
             they
             thy
             body
             to
             annoy
             ?
          
           
             The
             holy
             gods
             gilt
             temples
             they
             might
             fire
             ,
          
           
             That
             durst
             to
             so
             great
             wickednesse
             aspire
             .
          
           
             Eryx
             bright
             Empresse
             turnd
             her
             lookes
             aside
             ,
          
           
             And
             some
             ,
             that
             she
             refrain'd
             reares
             ,
             haue
             deni'd
             .
          
           
             Yet
             better
             i'
             ft
             ,
             then
             if
             ,
             
               Corcyras
               I
               le
            
             ,
          
           
             Had
             thee
             vnknowne
             interr'd
             in
             ground
             most
             vile
             .
          
           
             Thy
             dying
             eyes
             beere
             did
             thy
             mother
             close
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             did
             thy
             ashes
             her
             last
             offerings
             lose
             .
          
           
             Part
             of
             her
             sorrow
             heere
             thy
             sister
             beating
             .
          
           
             Comes
             forth
             her
             vnkeembe
             looks
             a
             sunder
             rearing
             .
          
           
             Nemesis
             and
             thy
             first
             wench
             ioyne
             their
             kisses
             ,
          
           
             With
             thine
             ,
             nor
             this
             last
             fire
             their
             presence
             misses
             .
          
           
             Delia
             departing
             happier
             lou'd
             she
             faith
             ,
          
           
             Was
             I
             :
             thou
             liu'dst
             ,
             while
             thou
             esteemdst
             my
             faith
             .
          
           
             Nemesis
             answers
             ,
             what
             's
             my
             losse
             to
             thee
             ?
          
           
             His
             fainting
             hand
             in
             death
             engarsped
             me
             .
          
           
             If
             ought
             remaines
             of
             vs
             but
             name
             ,
             and
             spirit
             ,
          
           
             Tibullus
             doth
             Elysiums
             ioy
             inherit
             .
          
           
           
             Their
             youthfull
             browes
             with
             Iuie
             girt
             to
             meete
             him
             ,
          
           
             With
             Caluus
             learn'd
             Catullus
             comes
             and
             greete
             him
             .
          
           
             And
             thou
             ,
             if
             falsely
             charged
             to
             wrong
             thy
             friend
             ,
          
           
             Gallus
             that
             car'st
             not
             blood
             ,
             and
             life
             to
             spend
             .
          
           
             VVith
             these
             thy
             soule
             walkes
             ,
             soules
             if
             death
             release
             ,
          
           
             The
             godly
             ,
             sweet
             Tibullus
             doth
             increase
             .
          
           
             Thy
             bones
             I
             pray
             may
             in
             the
             vrne
             safe
             rest
             ,
          
           
             And
             may
             th'
             earths
             weight
             thy
             ashes
             nought
             molest
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             9.
             
          
           
             Ad
             Cererem
             ,
             conquerens
             quod
             eius
             sacris
             cum
             amica
             concumbere
             non
             permittatur
             .
          
           
             COme
             were
             the
             times
             of
             Ceres
             sacrifice
             ,
          
           
             In
             emptie
             bed
             alone
             my
             mistresse
             lies
             .
          
           
             Golden
             hair'd
             Ceres
             crown'd
             with
             eares
             of
             corne
             ,
          
           
             VVhy
             are
             our
             pleasures
             by
             thy
             meanes
             forborne
             ?
          
           
             Thee
             ,
             goddesse
             ,
             bountifull
             all
             nations
             iudge
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             lesse
             at
             mans
             prosperity
             any
             grudge
             .
          
           
             Rude
             husband-men
             bak'd
             not
             their
             corne
             before
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             on
             the
             earth
             was
             knowne
             the
             name
             of
             floore
             ,
          
           
             On
             mast
             of
             oakes
             ,
             first
             oracles
             ,
             men
             fed
             ,
          
           
             This
             was
             their
             meate
             ,
             the
             soft
             grasse
             was
             their
             bed
             .
          
           
             First
             Ceres
             taught
             the
             seede
             in
             fields
             to
             swell
             ,
          
           
             And
             ripe-earde
             corne
             with
             sharp-edg-d
             sithes
             to
             fell
             .
          
           
             She
             first
             constrain'd
             bulles
             necks
             to
             beare
             the
             yoke
             ,
          
           
             And
             vntil'd
             ground
             with
             crooked
             plough-shares
             broke
             .
          
           
             VVho
             thinkes
             her
             to
             be
             glad
             at
             louers
             smart
             ,
          
           
             And
             worshipt
             by
             their
             paine
             ,
             and
             lying
             apart
             ?
          
           
             Nor
             is
             she
             ,
             though
             she
             loues
             the
             fertile
             fields
             ,
          
           
             A
             clowne
             ,
             nor
             no
             loue
             from
             her
             warme
             brest
             yeelds
             ;
          
           
             Be
             witnesse
             Crete
             (
             nor
             Crete
             doth
             all
             things
             feigne
             )
          
           
           
             Crete
             proude
             that
             Ioue
             her
             nourcery
             maintaine
             .
          
           
             There
             ,
             he
             who
             rules
             the
             worlds
             starre-spangled
             towers
             ,
          
           
             A
             little
             boy
             drunke
             teate-distilling
             showers
             .
          
           
             Faith
             to
             the
             witnesse
             Ioues
             praise
             doth
             apply
             ,
          
           
             Ceres
             ,
             I
             thinke
             ,
             no
             knowne
             fault
             will
             deny
             .
          
           
             The
             goddesse
             saw
             Iasion
             on
             
               Candian
               Ide
            
             ,
          
           
             With
             strong
             hand
             striking
             wild-beasts
             brist'led
             hyde
             .
          
           
             She
             saw
             ,
             and
             as
             her
             marrow
             tooke
             the
             flame
             ,
          
           
             Was
             diuers
             wayes
             distract
             with
             loue
             and
             shame
             .
          
           
             Loue
             conquer'd
             shame
             ,
             the
             furrowes
             dry
             were
             burn'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             corne
             with
             least
             part
             of
             it selfe
             return'd
             .
          
           
             When
             well-toss'd
             mattocks
             did
             the
             ground
             prepare
             ,
          
           
             Being
             fit
             broken
             with
             the
             crooked
             share
             .
          
           
             And
             seedes
             were
             equally
             in
             large
             fields
             cast
             ,
          
           
             The
             plough-mans
             hopes
             were
             frustrate
             at
             the
             last
             .
          
           
             The
             graine-rich
             goddesse
             in
             high
             woods
             did
             stray
             ,
          
           
             Her
             long
             haires
             eare-wrought
             garland
             fell
             away
             .
          
           
             Onely
             was
             Crete
             fruitefull
             that
             plenteous
             yeare
             ,
          
           
             Where
             Ceres
             went
             each
             place
             was
             haruest
             there
             .
          
           
             Ida
             the
             seate
             of
             groues
             did
             sing
             with
             corne
             ,
          
           
             VVhich
             by
             the
             wild
             boare
             in
             the
             woods
             was
             shorne
             .
          
           
             Law-giuing
             Minos
             did
             such
             yeares
             desire
             ,
          
           
             And
             wisht
             the
             goddesse
             long
             might
             seele
             loues
             fire
             .
          
           
             Ceres
             what
             sports
             to
             thee
             so
             gneuous
             were
             ,
          
           
             As
             in
             thy
             sacrifice
             we
             them
             forbeare
             ?
          
           
             VVhy
             am
             I
             sad
             ,
             when
             Proserpine
             is
             found
             ,
          
           
             And
             Iuno
             like
             with
             Dis
             raignes
             vnder
             ground
             ?
          
           
             Festiuall
             dayes
             aske
             Venus
             ,
             songs
             ,
             and
             wine
             ,
          
           
             These
             gifts
             are
             meere
             to
             please
             the
             powers
             diuine
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             10.
             
          
           
             Ad
             amicam
             ,
             a
             cuius
             amore
             discedere
             non
             potest
             .
          
           
             LOng
             haue
             I
             borne
             much
             ,
             mad
             thy
             faults
             me
             make
             ,
          
           
             Dishonest
             loue
             my
             wearied
             brest
             forsake
             .
          
           
             Now
             haue
             I
             freed
             my selfe
             ,
             and
             fled
             the
             chaine
             ,
          
           
             And
             what
             I
             haue
             borne
             ,
             shame
             to
             beare
             againe
             .
          
           
             VVe
             vanquish
             ,
             and
             tread
             tam'd
             loue
             vnder
             feete
             ,
          
           
             Victorious
             wreathes
             at
             length
             my
             Temples
             greete
             .
          
           
             Suffer
             ,
             and
             harden
             :
             good
             growes
             by
             this
             griefe
             ,
          
           
             Oft
             bitter
             iuyce
             brings
             to
             the
             sick
             reliefe
             .
          
           
             I
             haue
             sustain'd
             so
             oft
             thrust
             from
             the
             doore
             ,
          
           
             To
             lay
             my
             body
             on
             the
             hard
             moist
             floore
             .
          
           
             I
             know
             not
             whom
             thou
             lewdlie
             did'st
             imbrace
             ,
          
           
             VVhen
             I
             to
             watch
             supplyed
             a
             seruants
             place
             .
          
           
             I
             saw
             when
             forth
             a
             tyred
             louer
             went
             ,
          
           
             His
             side
             past
             seruice
             ,
             and
             his
             courage
             spent
             .
          
           
             Yet
             this
             is
             lesse
             ,
             then
             if
             he
             had
             seene
             me
             ,
          
           
             May
             that
             shame
             fall
             mine
             enimies
             chaunce
             to
             be
             .
          
           
             When
             haue
             not
             I
             fixt
             to
             thy
             side
             close
             layed
             ?
          
           
             I
             haue
             thy
             husband
             ,
             guard
             ,
             and
             fellow
             played
             .
          
           
             The
             people
             by
             my
             company
             she
             pleas'd
             ,
          
           
             My
             loue
             was
             cause
             that
             more
             mens
             loue
             she
             seaz'd
             .
          
           
             VVhat
             should
             I
             tell
             her
             vaine
             tongues
             filthy
             lyes
             ,
          
           
             And
             to
             my
             losse
             God-wronging
             periuries
             ?
          
           
             VVhat
             secret
             beeks
             in
             banquets
             with
             her
             youths
             ,
          
           
             VVith
             priuy
             signes
             ,
             and
             talke
             dissembling
             truths
             ?
          
           
             Hearing
             her
             to
             be
             sick
             ,
             I
             thither
             ranne
             ,
          
           
             But
             with
             my
             riuall
             sick
             she
             was
             not
             than
             ,
          
           
             These
             hardned
             me
             ,
             with
             what
             I
             keepe
             obscure
             ,
          
           
             Some
             other
             seeke
             ,
             who
             will
             these
             things
             endure
             .
          
           
           
             Now
             my
             ship
             in
             the
             wished
             hauen
             crown'd
             ,
          
           
             With
             ioy
             heares
             Neptunes
             swelling
             waters
             sound
             .
          
           
             Leaue
             thy
             once
             powerfull
             words
             ,
             and
             flatteries
             ,
          
           
             I
             am
             not
             as
             I
             was
             before
             vnwise
             .
          
           
             Now
             loue
             ,
             and
             hate
             my
             light
             brest
             each
             way
             moue
             ,
          
           
             But
             victory
             ,
             I
             thinke
             will
             hap
             to
             loue
             .
          
           
             I
             le
             hate
             ,
             it
             I
             can
             ;
             if
             not
             ,
             loue
             gainst
             my
             will
             ,
          
           
             Bulles
             hate
             the
             yoake
             ,
             yet
             what
             they
             hate
             haue
             still
             .
          
           
             I
             flie
             her
             lust
             ,
             but
             follow
             beauties
             creature
             ,
          
           
             I
             loath
             her
             manners
             ,
             loue
             her
             bodies
             feature
             .
          
           
             Nor
             with
             thee
             ,
             nor
             without
             thee
             ,
             can
             I
             liue
             ,
          
           
             And
             doubt
             to
             which
             desire
             the
             palme
             to
             giue
             .
          
           
             Or
             lesse
             faire
             ,
             or
             lesse
             lewd
             would
             thou
             might'st
             be
             ,
          
           
             Beauty
             with
             lewdnesse
             doth
             right
             ill
             agree
             .
          
           
             Her
             deeds
             gaine
             hate
             ,
             her
             face
             entreateth
             loue
             ,
          
           
             Ah
             she
             doth
             more
             worth
             then
             her
             vices
             proue
             .
          
           
             Spare
             me
             ,
             O
             by
             our
             fellow
             bed
             ,
             by
             all
             ,
          
           
             The
             Gods
             who
             by
             thee
             to
             be
             petiurde
             fall
             .
          
           
             And
             by
             thy
             face
             to
             me
             a
             powre
             diuine
             ,
          
           
             And
             by
             thine
             eyes
             whose
             radiance
             burnes
             out
             mine
             .
          
           
             What
             ere
             thou
             art
             mine
             art
             thou
             :
             choose
             this
             course
             ,
          
           
             Wilt
             haue
             me
             willing
             ,
             or
             to
             loue
             by
             force
             .
          
           
             Rather
             I
             le
             hoist
             vp
             saile
             ,
             and
             vse
             the
             winde
             ,
          
           
             That
             I
             may
             loue
             yet
             ,
             though
             agaist
             my
             minde
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             11.
             
          
           
             Dolet
             amicam
             suam
             ita
             suis
             earminibus
             innotuissae
             vt
             riuales
             multos
             sibi
             pararit
             .
          
           
             VVHat
             day
             was
             that
             ,
             which
             all
             sad
             haps
             to
             bring
             ,
          
           
             White
             birds
             to
             louers
             did
             not
             alwayes
             sing
             .
          
           
             Oris
             I
             thinke
             my
             wish
             against
             the
             starre
             ?
          
           
           
             Or
             shall
             I
             plaine
             some
             God
             against
             me
             warres
             ?
          
           
             Who
             mine
             was
             cal'd
             ,
             whom
             I
             lou'd
             more
             then
             any
             ,
          
           
             I
             feare
             with
             me
             is
             common
             now
             to
             many
             .
          
           
             Erre
             I
             ?
             or
             by
             my
             lookes
             is
             she
             so
             knowne
             ?
          
           
             T
             is
             so
             :
             by
             my
             wit
             her
             abuse
             is
             growne
             .
          
           
             And
             iustly
             :
             for
             her
             praise
             why
             did
             I
             tell
             ?
          
           
             The
             wench
             by
             my
             fault
             is
             set
             forth
             to
             sell.
          
           
             The
             bawde
             I
             play
             ,
             louers
             to
             her
             I
             guide
             :
          
           
             Her
             gate
             by
             my
             hands
             is
             set
             open
             wide
             .
          
           
             'T
             is
             doubtfull
             whether
             verse
             auaile
             ,
             or
             harme
             ,
          
           
             Against
             my
             good
             they
             were
             an
             enuious
             charme
             .
          
           
             When
             Thebes
             ,
             when
             Troy
             ,
             when
             Caesar
             should
             be
             writ
             ,
          
           
             Alone
             Corinna
             moues
             my
             wanton
             wit.
          
           
             With
             Muse
             oppos'd
             would
             I
             my
             lines
             had
             done
             ,
          
           
             And
             Phoebus
             had
             forsooke
             my
             worke
             begun
             .
          
           
             Nor
             ,
             as
             vse
             will
             not
             Poets
             record
             heare
             ,
          
           
             Would
             I
             my
             words
             would
             any
             credit
             beare
             .
          
           
             Scylla
             by
             vs
             her
             fathers
             rich
             haire
             steales
             ,
          
           
             And
             Scyllaes
             wombe
             mad
             raging
             dogs
             conceales
             .
          
           
             Wee
             cause
             feete
             fly
             ,
             wee
             mingle
             haires
             with
             snakes
             ,
          
           
             Victorious
             Perseus
             a
             wing'd
             steedes
             back
             takes
             .
          
           
             Our
             verse
             great
             Tityus
             a
             huge
             space
             out-spreads
             ,
          
           
             And
             giues
             the
             viper
             curled
             Dogge
             three
             heads
             .
          
           
             We
             make
             Enceladus
             vse
             a
             thousand
             armes
             ,
          
           
             And
             men
             inthral'd
             by
             Mermaids
             singing
             charmes
             .
          
           
             The
             East
             winds
             in
             Vlisses
             baggs
             we
             shut
             ,
          
           
             And
             babbing
             Tantalus
             in
             mid-waters
             put
             .
          
           
             Niobe
             flint
             ,
             Callist
             we
             make
             a
             Beare
             ,
          
           
             Bird-changed
             Progne
             doth
             her
             Itys
             teare
             .
          
           
             Ione
             turnes
             himselfe
             into
             a
             Swanne
             ,
             or
             gold
             ,
          
           
             Or
             his
             Bulles
             hornes
             Europas
             hand
             doth
             hold
             .
          
           
             Proteus
             what
             should
             I
             name
             ?
             teeth
             ,
             Thebes
             first
             seed
             ?
          
           
           
             Oxen
             in
             whose
             mouthes
             burning
             flames
             did
             breede
             ,
          
           
             Heau'n
             starre
             Electra
             that
             bewail'd
             her
             sisters
             ?
          
           
             The
             ships
             ,
             whose
             Godhead
             in
             the
             sea
             now
             glisters
             ?
          
           
             The
             Sunne
             turn'd
             back
             from
             Atreus
             cursed
             table
             ?
          
           
             And
             sweet
             toucht
             harp
             that
             to
             moue
             stones
             was
             able
             ?
          
           
             Poets
             large
             power
             is
             boundlesse
             ,
             and
             immense
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             haue
             their
             words
             true
             histories
             pretence
             ,
          
           
             And
             my
             wench
             ought
             to
             haue
             seem'd
             falsely
             prais'd
             ,
          
           
             Now
             your
             credulity
             harme
             to
             me
             hath
             rais'd
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             12.
             
          
           
             De
             Iunonis
             festo
             .
          
           
             VVHen
             fruite
             fil'd
             Tuscia
             should
             a
             wife
             giue
             me
             ,
          
           
             We
             toucht
             the
             walles
             ,
             Camillus
             wonne
             by
             thee
             .
          
           
             The
             Priests
             to
             Iuno
             did
             prepare
             chast
             feasts
             ,
          
           
             With
             famous
             pageants
             ,
             and
             their
             home-bred
             beasts
             .
          
           
             To
             know
             their
             rites
             ,
             well
             recompenc'd
             my
             stay
             ,
          
           
             Though
             thether
             leades
             a
             rough
             steepe
             hilly
             way
             .
          
           
             There
             stands
             an
             old
             wood
             with
             thick
             trees
             dark
             clouded
             ,
          
           
             Who
             sees
             it
             graunts
             some
             d●ity
             there
             is
             shrowded
             .
          
           
             An
             Altar
             takes
             mens
             incense
             and
             oblation
             ,
          
           
             An
             Altar
             made
             after
             the
             ancient
             fashion●
             .
          
           
             Here
             when
             the
             Pipe
             with
             solemne
             tunes
             doth
             sound
             ,
          
           
             The
             annuall
             pompe
             goes
             on
             the
             couered
             ground
             .
          
           
             White
             Heifers
             by
             glad
             people
             forth
             are
             led
             ,
          
           
             Which
             with
             the
             grasse
             of
             Tuscane
             fields
             are
             fed
             .
          
           
             And
             calu●●
             from
             whose
             fear'd
             front
             no
             threatning
             flies
             ,
          
           
             And
             little
             Piggs
             base
             Hog-Sties
             sacrifice
             ,
          
           
             And
             Rams
             with
             hornes
             their
             hard
             heads
             wreathed
             back
             ,
          
           
             Onely
             the
             Goddesse
             hated
             Goate
             did
             lack
             .
          
           
             By
             whom
             disclos'd
             ,
             she
             in
             the
             high
             woods
             tooke
             ,
          
           
           
             Is
             said
             to
             haue
             attempted
             flight
             forsooke
             .
          
           
             Now
             is
             the
             goat
             brought
             through
             the
             boyes
             with
             darts
             ,
          
           
             And
             giue
             to
             him
             that
             the
             first
             wound
             imparts
             .
          
           
             Where
             Iuno
             comes
             ,
             each
             youth
             ,
             and
             pretty
             maide
             ,
          
           
             Shew
             large
             wayes
             with
             their
             garments
             there
             displayed
             .
          
           
             Iewels
             ,
             and
             gold
             their
             Virgin
             tresses
             crowne
             .
          
           
             And
             stately
             robes
             to
             their
             gilt
             feete
             hang
             downe
             .
          
           
             As
             is
             the
             vse
             ,
             the
             Nunnes
             in
             white
             veyles
             clad
             ,
          
           
             Vpon
             their
             heads
             the
             holy
             misteries
             had
             .
          
           
             When
             the
             chiefe
             pompe
             comes
             ,
             lowde
             the
             people
             hollow
          
           
             And
             she
             her
             vestall
             virgin
             Priests
             doth
             follow
             .
          
           
             Such
             was
             the
             Greeke
             pompe
             ,
             Agamemnon
             dead
             ,
          
           
             Which
             fact
             ,
             and
             countrie
             wealth
             Halesus
             fled
             .
          
           
             And
             hauing
             wandred
             now
             through
             sea
             and
             land
             ,
          
           
             Built
             walles
             high
             towred
             with
             a
             prosperous
             hand
             .
          
           
             He
             to
             th'
             
               Hetrurians
               ,
               Iunoes
            
             feast
             commended
             ,
          
           
             Let
             me
             ,
             and
             them
             by
             it
             be
             aye
             be-friended
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             13
          
           
             Adamicam
             ,
             si
             peccatura
             est
             ,
             vt
             occultè
             peccet
             .
          
           
             SEEing
             thou
             art
             faire
             ,
             I
             barre
             not
             thy selfe
             playing
             ,
          
           
             But
             let
             not
             me
             poore
             soule
             know
             of
             thy
             straying
             .
          
           
             Nor
             doe
             I
             giue
             thee
             counsell
             to
             liue
             chast
             ,
          
           
             But
             that
             thou
             would'st
             dissemble
             ,
             when
             't
             is
             past
             .
          
           
             She
             hath
             not
             tred
             awry
             ,
             that
             doth
             deny
             it
             .
          
           
             Such
             as
             confesse
             haue
             lost
             their
             good
             names
             by
             it
             ,
          
           
             What
             madnesse
             i
             st
             to
             tell
             nights
             pranckes
             by
             day
             ?
          
           
             And
             hidden
             secrets
             openly
             to
             bewray
             ?
          
           
             The
             strumpet
             with
             the
             stranger
             will
             not
             doo
             .
          
           
             Before
             the
             roome
             be
             cleere
             ,
             and
             doore
             put
             too
             .
          
           
             VVill
             you
             make
             ship-wrack
             of
             your
             honest
             name
             ?
          
           
           
             And
             let
             the
             world
             be
             witnesse
             of
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             Be
             more
             aduis'd
             ,
             walke
             as
             a
             puritan
             ,
          
           
             And
             I
             shall
             thinke
             you
             chaste
             ,
             do
             what
             you
             can
             .
          
           
             Slip
             still
             onely
             deny
             it
             ,
             when
             't
             is
             done
             ,
          
           
             And
             before
             folke
             immodest
             speeches
             shunne
             .
          
           
             The
             bed
             is
             for
             lasciuious
             toyings
             meete
             ,
          
           
             There
             vse
             all
             tricks
             ,
             and
             tread
             shame
             vnder
             feete
             .
          
           
             VVhen
             y●u
             are
             vp
             ,
             and
             drest
             ,
             be
             sage
             and
             graue
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             the
             bed
             hide
             all
             the
             faults
             you
             haue
             .
          
           
             Be
             not
             asham'd
             to
             strip
             you
             being
             there
             ,
          
           
             And
             mingle
             thighes
             yours
             euer
             mine
             to
             beare
             .
          
           
             There
             in
             your
             Rosie
             lips
             my
             tongue
             in-tombe
             ,
          
           
             Practise
             a
             thousand
             sports
             when
             there
             you
             come
             .
          
           
             Forbeare
             no
             wanton
             words
             you
             there
             would
             speake
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             your
             pastime
             let
             the
             bed-stead
             creake
             .
          
           
             But
             with
             your
             robes
             put
             on
             an
             honest
             face
             ,
          
           
             And
             blush
             ,
             and
             seeme
             as
             you
             were
             full
             of
             grace
             .
          
           
             Deceiue
             all
             ▪
             let
             me
             erre
             ,
             and
             thinke
             I
             am
             right
             ,
          
           
             A●d
             like
             a
             Wittall
             thi●ke
             thee
             voide
             of
             slight
             .
          
           
             VVhy
             see
             I
             lines
             so
             oft
             receiu'd
             ,
             and
             giuen
             ?
          
           
             This
             bed
             and
             that
             by
             tumbling
             made
             vneuen
             ?
          
           
             Like
             one
             start
             vp
             your
             haire
             tost
             and
             dsiplac'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             a
             wantons
             tooth
             your
             neck
             new
             rac'd
             .
          
           
             Graunt
             this
             ,
             that
             what
             you
             do
             I
             may
             not
             see
             ,
          
           
             If
             you
             weigh
             not
             ill
             speeches
             ,
             yet
             weigh
             mee
             .
          
           
             My
             soule
             fleetes
             ,
             when
             I
             thinke
             what
             you
             haue
             done
             ,
          
           
             And
             thorough
             euery
             veine
             doth
             cold
             blood
             runne
             .
          
           
             Then
             thee
             whom
             I
             must
             loue
             ,
             I
             hate
             in
             vaine
             ,
          
           
             And
             would
             be
             dead
             ,
             but
             dead
             with
             thee
             remaine
             .
          
           
             I
             le
             not
             sift
             much
             ,
             but
             hold
             thee
             soone
             excus'd
             ,
          
           
             Say
             but
             thou
             wert
             iniu●iously
             accus'd
             .
          
           
             Though
             while
             the
             deed
             be
             doing
             you
             be
             tooke
             .
          
           
           
             And
             I
             see
             when
             you
             ope
             the
             two
             leau'd
             booke
             ,
          
           
             Sweare
             I
             was
             blinde
             ,
             deny
             if
             you
             be
             wise
             .
          
           
             And
             I
             will
             trust
             your
             words
             more
             then
             mine
             eyes
             ,
          
           
             From
             him
             that
             yeelds
             the
             palme
             is
             quickly
             got
             ,
          
           
             Teach
             but
             your
             tongue
             to
             say
             ,
             I
             did
             it
             not
             ▪
          
           
             And
             being
             iustifi'd
             by
             two
             words
             thinke
             ,
          
           
             The
             cause
             acquit's
             you
             not
             ,
             but
             I
             that
             winke
             .
          
        
         
           
             ELEGIA
             .
             14.
             
          
           
             Advenerem
             ,
             quod
             elegis
             ●inem
             imponat
             .
          
           
             TEnder
             loues
             Mother
             a
             new
             Poet
             get
             ,
          
           
             This
             last
             end
             to
             my
             Elegies
             is
             set
             .
          
           
             Which
             I
             Pelignis
             foster-childe
             haue
             fram'd
             .
          
           
             (
             Nor
             am
             I
             by
             such
             wanton
             toyes
             defam'd
             )
          
           
             Heire
             of
             an
             ancient
             house
             ,
             if
             help
             that
             can
             ,
          
           
             Not
             onely
             by
             warres
             rage
             made
             Gentleman
             ,
          
           
             In
             
               Virgil
               Mantua
            
             ioyes
             :
             in
             
               Catul
               Verone
            
             ,
          
           
             Of
             me
             Pelignis
             nation
             boasts
             alone
             ,
          
           
             Whom
             liberty
             to
             honest
             armes
             compeld
             ,
          
           
             When
             carefull
             Rome
             in
             doubt
             their
             prowesse
             held
             .
          
           
             And
             some
             guest
             viewing
             watry
             Sulmoes
             walles
             ,
          
           
             Where
             little
             ground
             to
             be
             inclos'd
             befalles
             .
          
           
             How
             such
             a
             Poet
             could
             you
             bring
             forth
             ,
             sayes
             ,
          
           
             How
             small
             so
             ere
             ,
             I
             'le
             you
             for
             greatest
             praise
             .
          
           
             Both
             lou●s
             to
             whom
             my
             heart
             long
             time
             did
             yeeld
             ,
          
           
             Your
             golden
             ensignes
             pluckt
             out
             of
             my
             field
             ,
          
           
             Horned
             Bacchus
             grauer
             furie
             doth
             distill
             ,
          
           
             A
             greater
             ground
             with
             great
             horse
             is
             to
             till
             .
          
           
             Weake
             Elegies
             ,
             delightfull
             Muse
             farewell
             ;
          
           
             A
             worke
             ,
             that
             after
             my
             death
             ,
             heere
             shall
             dwell
             .
          
           
             FINIS
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           EPIGRAMES
           .
        
         
           By
           I.
           D.
           
        
         
           
             Ad
             Musam
             .
          
           
             FLie
             merry
             Muse
             vnto
             that
             merry
             towne
             ,
          
           
             Where
             thou
             mai'st
             playes
             ,
             reuels
             ,
             and
             triumphes
             see
             ,
          
           
             The
             house
             of
             Fame
             ,
             and
             Theatre
             of
             renowne
             ,
          
           
             Where
             all
             good
             witts
             and
             spirits
             loue
             to
             be
             .
          
           
             Fall
             in
             betweene
             their
             hands
             ,
             that
             loue
             and
             praise
             thee
             ,
          
           
             And
             be
             to
             them
             a
             laughter
             and
             a
             iest
             :
          
           
             But
             as
             for
             them
             which
             scorning
             shall
             reprooue
             thee
             ,
          
           
             Disdaine
             their
             wits
             ,
             and
             thinke
             thine
             owne
             the
             best
             ,
          
           
             But
             if
             thou
             finde
             any
             so
             grosse
             and
             dull
             ,
          
           
             That
             thinke
             I
             doe
             to
             priuate
             Taxing
             leane
             :
          
           
             Bid
             him
             goe
             hang
             ,
             for
             he
             is
             but
             a
             gull
             ,
          
           
             And
             knowes
             not
             what
             an
             Epigramme
             does
             meane
             .
          
           
             Which
             taxeth
             vnder
             a
             particular
             name
             ,
          
           
             A
             generall
             vice
             which
             merits
             publike
             blame
             .
          
        
         
           
             Of
             a
             Gull.
             
          
           
             OFt
             in
             my
             laughing
             times
             ,
             I
             name
             a
             gull
             ,
          
           
             But
             this
             new
             tearme
             will
             many
             questions
             breede
             ,
          
           
             Therefore
             at
             first
             I
             will
             expresse
             at
             full
             ,
          
           
             Who
             is
             a
             true
             and
             perfect
             Gull
             indeed
             .
          
           
             A
             Gull
             is
             he
             ,
             who
             feares
             a
             Veluet
             gowne
             ,
          
           
             And
             when
             a
             wench
             is
             braue
             ,
             dares
             not
             speake
             to
             her
             :
          
           
             A
             Gull
             is
             he
             which
             trauer●eth
             the
             towne
             .
          
           
             And
             is
             for
             marriage
             knowne
             a
             common
             woer
             .
          
           
             A
             Gull
             is
             he
             ,
             which
             while
             he
             proudly
             weares
             ,
          
           
             A
             siluer
             hilted
             Rapier
             by
             his
             side
             :
          
           
             Indures
             the
             lyes
             ,
             and
             knockes
             about
             the
             eares
             ,
          
           
             Whil'st
             in
             his
             sheath
             ,
             his
             sleeping
             sword
             doth
             bide
             .
          
           
             A
             Gull
             is
             he
             which
             weares
             good
             hansome
             cloathes
             :
          
           
             And
             stands
             in
             presence
             stroaking
             vp
             his
             hayre
             .
          
           
           
             And
             filles
             vp
             his
             vnperfect
             speech
             with
             othes
             .
          
           
             But
             speakes
             not
             one
             wise
             word
             throughout
             the
             yeare
             .
          
           
             But
             to
             define
             a
             gull
             in
             termes
             precise
             ,
          
           
             A
             gull
             is
             he
             which
             seemes
             ,
             and
             is
             not
             wise
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Rufum
             .
             3.
             
          
           
             Rvfus
             the
             Courtier
             ,
             at
             the
             Theater
             ,
          
           
             Leauing
             the
             best
             and
             most
             conspicuous
             place
             ,
          
           
             Doth
             either
             to
             the
             stage
             himselfe
             transferre
             ,
          
           
             Or
             through
             a
             grate
             ,
             doth
             shew
             his
             double
             face
             .
          
           
             For
             that
             the
             clamorous
             fry
             of
             Innes
             of
             court
             ,
          
           
             Fills
             vp
             the
             priuate
             roomes
             of
             gre●ter
             price
             :
          
           
             And
             such
             a
             place
             where
             all
             may
             haue
             resort
             ,
          
           
             Hein
             his
             singularity
             doth
             despise
             .
          
           
             Yet
             doth
             not
             his
             particuler
             humour
             shun
             ,
          
           
             The
             common
             stewes
             and
             brothell●
             of
             the
             towne
             ,
          
           
             Though
             all
             the
             world
             in
             troupes
             do
             thither
             run
             .
          
           
             Cleane
             and
             vncleane
             ,
             the
             gentle
             and
             the
             clowne
             .
          
           
             Then
             why
             should
             Rufus
             in
             his
             pride
             abhorre
             ,
          
           
             A
             common
             seate
             that
             loues
             a
             common
             whore
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Quintum
             .
             4.
             
          
           
             QVintus
             the
             dauncer
             vseth
             euermore
             ,
          
           
             His
             feete
             in
             measure
             and
             in
             rule
             to
             moue
             .
          
           
             Yet
             on
             a
             time
             he
             cal'd
             his
             mistresse
             whore
             ,
          
           
             And
             thought
             with
             that
             sweet
             word
             to
             win
             her
             loue
             .
          
           
             Oh
             had
             his
             tongue
             like
             to
             his
             ●eete
             bin
             taught
             ,
          
           
             It
             neuer
             would
             haue
             vttered
             such
             a
             thought
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Plurimos
             .
             5.
             
          
           
             FAustinus
             ,
             Sextus
             ,
             Cinna
             ,
             Ponticus
             ,
          
           
             VVith
             Gella
             ,
             Lesbía
             ,
             Thais
             ,
             Rodope
             :
          
           
             Rode
             all
             to
             Stanes
             for
             no
             cause
             serious
             ,
          
           
             But
             for
             :
             their
             mitth
             ,
             and
             for
             their
             lechery
             .
          
           
             Scarse
             were
             they
             setled
             in
             their
             lodging
             ,
             when
          
           
           
             VVenches
             ,
             with
             wenches
             ;
             men
             with
             men
             fell
             out
             .
          
           
             Men
             with
             their
             wenches
             ,
             wenches
             with
             their
             men
             ,
          
           
             VVhich
             strait
             dissolues
             this
             ill
             assembled
             rout
             .
          
           
             But
             since
             the
             diuell
             brought
             them
             thus
             together
             ,
          
           
             To
             my
             discoursing
             thoughts
             it
             is
             a
             wonder
             .
          
           
             VVhy
             presently
             as
             soone
             as
             they
             came
             thither
             ,
          
           
             The
             selfe
             same
             diuell
             did
             them
             part
             a
             sunder
             .
          
           
             Doubtlesse
             it
             seemes
             it
             was
             a
             foolish
             diuell
             ,
          
           
             That
             thus
             did
             part
             them
             ,
             ere
             they
             did
             some
             euill
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Titum
             .
             6.
             
          
           
             TItus
             the
             braue
             and
             valorous
             yong
             gallant
             ,
          
           
             Three
             years
             togither
             in
             this
             towne
             hath
             beene
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             my
             Lord
             Chauncellors
             tombe
             he
             hath
             not
             seene
             :
          
           
             Nor
             the
             New
             water
             worke
             ,
             nor
             the
             Elephant
             .
          
           
             I
             can
             not
             tell
             the
             cause
             without
             a
             smile
             ,
          
           
             He
             hath
             bin
             in
             the
             Counter
             all
             this
             while
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Faustum
             .
             7.
             
          
           
             FAustus
             not
             Lord
             nor
             knight
             ,
             nor
             wise
             nor
             old
             ,
          
           
             To
             euery
             place
             about
             the
             towne
             doth
             ride
             ,
          
           
             He
             tides
             into
             the
             fieldes
             ,
             Playes
             to
             behold
             ,
          
           
             He
             rides
             to
             take
             boate
             at
             the
             water
             side
             .
          
           
             He
             rides
             to
             Powles
             ,
             he
             rides
             to
             th'
             ordinary
             ,
          
           
             He
             rides
             vnto
             the
             house
             of
             bawdery
             too
             .
          
           
             Thither
             his
             horse
             doth
             him
             so
             often
             carry
             ,
          
           
             That
             shortly
             he
             will
             quite
             forget
             to
             go
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Katum
             .
             8.
             
          
           
             KAte
             being
             pleas'd
             ,
             wisht
             that
             her
             pleasure
             could
             ,
          
           
             Indure
             as
             long
             as
             a
             buffe
             ierkin
             would
             .
          
           
             Content
             thee
             Kate
             ,
             although
             thy
             pleasure
             wasteth
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             pleasures
             place
             like
             a
             buffe
             ierkin
             lasteth
             .
          
           
             For
             no
             buffe
             ierkin
             hath-bin
             oftner
             worne
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             hath
             more
             scrapings
             ,
             or
             more
             dressings
             borne
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             In
             Librum
             .
             9.
             
          
           
             LIber
             doth
             vaunt
             how
             chastly
             he
             hath
             liu'd
          
           
             Since
             he
             hath
             bin
             seauen
             years
             in
             towne
             and
             more
             .
          
           
             For
             that
             he
             sweares
             he
             hath
             foure
             onely
             swiude
             ,
          
           
             A
             maide
             ,
             a
             wife
             ,
             a
             widdow
             ,
             and
             a
             whore
             ,
          
           
             Then
             Liber
             thou
             hast
             swiude
             all
             women
             kinde
             ,
          
           
             For
             a
             sift
             sort
             ,
             I
             know
             thou
             canst
             not
             finde
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Medonem
             .
             10.
             
          
           
             GReat
             Captaine
             Moedon
             weares
             a
             chaine
             of
             gold
             ,
          
           
             Which
             at
             fiue
             hundred
             crownes
             is
             vallued
          
           
             For
             that
             it
             was
             his
             graund-fires
             chaine
             of
             old
             ,
          
           
             When
             great
             King
             
               Henry
               Bulloigne
            
             conquered
             .
          
           
             And
             weare
             it
             Moedon
             for
             it
             may
             insue
          
           
             That
             thou
             by
             vertue
             of
             this
             Massie
             chaine
          
           
             A
             stronger
             towne
             then
             Bulloigne
             mai'st
             subdue
          
           
             If
             wise
             mens
             sawes
             be
             not
             reputed
             vaine
             .
          
           
             For
             what
             said
             Philip
             King
             of
             Macedon
             ?
          
           
             There
             is
             no
             Castel
             so
             well
             fortified
             ,
          
           
             But
             if
             an
             Asse
             laden
             with
             gold
             comes
             on
             ,
          
           
             The
             guard
             will
             stoope
             ,
             and
             gates
             fly
             open
             wide
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Gellam
             .
             11.
             
          
           
             GElla
             if
             thou
             doest
             loue
             thy selfe
             take
             heede
             ,
          
           
             Least
             thou
             my
             rimes
             ,
             vnto
             thy
             louer
             reade
             .
          
           
             For
             straight
             thou
             grin'st
             ,
             and
             then
             thy
             louer
             seeth
          
           
             Thy
             canker-eaten-gumes
             and
             rotten
             teeth
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Quintum
             .
             12.
             
          
           
             QVintus
             his
             wit
             infused
             into
             his
             braine
             ,
          
           
             Mislikes
             the
             place
             ,
             and
             fled
             into
             his
             feete
             ,
          
           
             And
             there
             it
             wanders
             vp
             and
             downe
             the
             streetes
             ,
          
           
             Dabled
             in
             the
             dyrt
             ,
             and
             soaked
             in
             the
             raine
             ,
          
           
             Doubtlesse
             his
             wit
             intendes
             not
             to
             aspire
             ,
          
           
             Which
             leaues
             his
             head
             to
             trauell
             in
             the
             mire
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             In
             Seuerum
             .
             13.
             
          
           
             THe
             Puritan
             Seuerus
             oft
             doth
             reade
             ,
          
           
             This
             text
             ▪
             that
             doth
             pronounce
             vaine
             speech
             a
             sinne
             ,
          
           
             That
             thing
             defiles
             a
             man
             that
             doth
             proceede
             ,
          
           
             From
             out
             the
             mouth
             ,
             not
             that
             which
             enters
             in
             .
          
           
             Hence
             is
             it
             ,
             that
             we
             seeldome
             heare
             him
             sweare
             ,
          
           
             And
             thereof
             as
             a
             Pharesie
             he
             vaunts
             .
          
           
             But
             he
             deuour's
             more
             Capons
             in
             one
             yeare
             ,
          
           
             Then
             would
             suffice
             an
             hundred
             protestants
             .
          
           
             And
             sooth
             those
             sectaries
             are
             gluttons
             all
             ,
          
           
             Aswell
             the
             threed
             bare-Cobler
             as
             the
             knight
             .
          
           
             For
             those
             poore
             slaues
             which
             haue
             not
             wherewithall
          
           
             Feed
             on
             the
             rich
             ,
             till
             they
             deuoure
             them
             quite
             .
          
           
             And
             so
             as
             Pharoes
             kine
             ,
             they
             eate
             vp
             cleane
             ,
          
           
             Those
             that
             be
             fat
             ,
             yet
             still
             themselues
             be
             leane
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Leucam
             .
             14.
             
          
           
             LEuca
             in
             presence
             once
             a
             fart
             did
             let
             ,
          
           
             Some
             laught
             a
             little
             ,
             she
             refus'd
             the
             place
             ,
          
           
             And
             mad
             with
             shame
             ,
             did
             then
             her
             gloue
             forget
             ,
          
           
             Which
             she
             return'd
             to
             fetch
             with
             bashfull
             grace
             :
          
           
             And
             when
             she
             would
             haue
             said
             my
             gloue
             ,
          
           
             My
             fart
             (
             qd
             ,
             she
             )
             which
             did
             more
             laughter
             moue
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Matrum
             .
             15.
             
          
           
             THou
             canst
             not
             speake
             ,
             yet
             Maecer
             ,
             for
             to
             speake
             ,
          
           
             Is
             too
             distinguish
             sounds
             significant
          
           
             Thou
             with
             harsh
             noyse
             the
             ayre
             doth
             rudely
             breake
          
           
             But
             what
             thou
             vtterest
             common
             sence
             doth
             want
             .
          
           
             Halfe
             English
             words
             ,
             with
             sustian
             tearmes
             among
             .
          
           
             Much
             like
             the
             burthen
             of
             a
             Northeme
             song
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Fastum
             .
             16.
             
          
           
             THat
             youth
             saith
             Fanstus
             ,
             hath
             a
             Lyon
             seene
             ,
          
           
             Who
             from
             a
             dycing-house
             comes
             monie-lesse
             .
          
           
           
             But
             when
             he
             lost
             his
             haire
             ,
             where
             had
             he
             beene
             ,
          
           
             I
             doubt
             me
             he
             had
             seene
             a
             Lyonesse
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Cosmum
             .
             17.
             
          
           
             COsmus
             hath
             more
             discoursing
             in
             his
             head
             ,
          
           
             Then
             loue
             ,
             when
             
             Pallas
             ●ssued
             from
             his
             braine
             ,
          
           
             And
             still
             he
             striues
             to
             be
             deliuered
             ,
          
           
             Of
             all
             his
             thoughts
             at
             once
             ,
             but
             all
             in
             vaine
             .
          
           
             For
             as
             we
             see
             at
             all
             the
             play-house
             dores
             ,
          
           
             When
             ended
             is
             the
             play
             ,
             the
             daunce
             and
             song
             :
          
           
             A
             thousand
             townse-men
             gentlemen
             and
             whores
             .
          
           
             Porters
             and
             seruing-men
             togither
             throng
             ,
          
           
             So
             thoughts
             of
             drinking
             ,
             thriuing
             ,
             wenching
             ,
             warre
             ,
          
           
             And
             borrowing
             money
             ,
             raging
             in
             his
             minde
             .
          
           
             To
             issue
             all
             at
             once
             so
             forward
             are
          
           
             As
             none
             at
             all
             can
             perfect
             passage
             finde
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Flaccum
             .
             18.
             
          
           
             THe
             false
             knaue
             Flaccus
             once
             a
             bribe
             I
             gaue
             ,
          
           
             The
             more
             foole
             I
             to
             bribe
             so
             false
             a
             knaue
             ,
          
           
             But
             he
             gaue
             back
             my
             bribe
             the
             more
             foole
             he
             ,
          
           
             That
             for
             my
             folly
             did
             not
             cousen
             me
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Cineam
             .
             19.
             
          
           
             THou
             dogged
             Cineas
             hated
             like
             a
             dogge
             ,
          
           
             For
             still
             thou
             grumblest
             like
             a
             masty
             dogge
             .
          
           
             Compar'st
             thy selfe
             to
             nothing
             but
             a
             dogge
             .
          
           
             Thou
             say'st
             thou
             art
             as
             weary
             as
             a
             dogge
          
           
             As
             angry
             ,
             sick
             ,
             and
             hungry
             as
             a
             dogge
             ,
          
           
             As
             dul●
             and
             melancholy
             as
             a
             dogge
             .
          
           
             As
             lazy
             ,
             sleepy
             ,
             and
             as
             idle
             as
             a
             dogge
             .
          
           
             But
             why
             doest
             thou
             compare
             thee
             to
             a
             dogge
             ?
          
           
             In
             that
             ,
             for
             which
             all
             men
             despise
             a
             dogge
             .
          
           
             I
             will
             compare
             thee
             better
             to
             a
             dogge
             .
          
           
             Thou
             art
             as
             Faire
             and
             comely
             as
             a
             dogge
             .
          
           
           
             Thou
             art
             as
             true
             and
             honest
             as
             a
             dogge
             .
          
           
             Thou
             art
             as
             kinde
             and
             liberall
             as
             a
             dogge
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             art
             as
             wise
             and
             valiant
             as
             a
             dogge
             .
          
           
             But
             Cineas
             ,
             I
             oft
             haue
             heard
             thee
             tell
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             art
             as
             like
             thy
             father
             as
             may
             be
             .
          
           
             T
             is
             like
             enough
             ,
             and
             faith
             I
             like
             it
             well
             ,
          
           
             But
             I
             am
             glad
             thou
             art
             not
             like
             to
             me
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Gerontem
             .
             20.
             
          
           
             GErons
             mouldie
             memory
             corrects
             ,
          
           
             Old
             Holinshed
             our
             famous
             Chronicler
          
           
             With
             morall
             rules
             ,
             and
             pollicy
             collects
             ,
          
           
             Out
             of
             all
             actions
             done
             these
             fourescore
             yeares
             .
          
           
             Accounts
             the
             time
             of
             euery
             old
             euent
             ,
          
           
             Not
             from
             Christs
             birth
             ,
             nor
             from
             the
             Princes
             raigne
             .
          
           
             But
             from
             some
             other
             famous
             accident
             .
          
           
             Which
             in
             mens
             generall
             notice
             doth
             remaine
             .
          
           
             The
             siedge
             of
             Bulloigne
             ,
             and
             the
             plaugy
             sweat
             ,
          
           
             The
             going
             to
             
               Saint
               Quintines
            
             and
             New-hauen
          
           
             The
             rising
             in
             the
             North
             ,
             the
             frost
             so
             great
             .
          
           
             That
             cart
             wheele
             printes
             on
             Thamis
             face
             were
             seene
             .
          
           
             The
             fall
             of
             money
             ,
             and
             burning
             of
             Powles
             sleeple
             ,
          
           
             The
             blazing
             starre
             and
             Spaniards
             ouerthrow
             .
          
           
             By
             these
             euents
             ,
             notorious
             to
             the
             people
             .
          
           
             He
             mesures
             times
             ,
             and
             things
             forepast
             doth
             shew
             .
          
           
             But
             most
             of
             all
             ,
             he
             cheefely
             reckons
             by
             ,
          
           
             A
             priuate
             chance
             ,
             the
             death
             of
             his
             cu●st
             wife
             :
          
           
             This
             is
             to
             him
             the
             dearest
             memory
             ,
          
           
             And
             the
             happyest
             accident
             of
             all
             his
             life
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Marcum
             .
             21.
             
          
           
             VVHen
             Marcus
             comes
             from
             Minnes
             he
             still
             doth
             ●wear
          
           
             By
             come
             on
             seauē
             ,
             that
             al
             is
             lost
             &
             gone
          
           
             But
             that
             's
             not
             true
             ,
             for
             he
             hath
             lost
             his
             haire
             .
          
           
           
             Onely
             for
             that
             ,
             he
             came
             too
             much
             at
             one
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Ciprum
             .
             22.
             
          
           
             THe
             fine
             youth
             Ciprius
             is
             more
             tierse
             and
             neate
             ,
          
           
             Then
             the
             new
             garden
             of
             the
             old
             temple
             is
             ,
          
           
             And
             still
             the
             newest
             fashion
             he
             doth
             get
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             the
             time
             doth
             chaunge
             from
             that
             to
             this
             ,
          
           
             He
             weares
             a
             hat
             now
             of
             the
             flat
             crown-blocke
             ,
          
           
             The
             treble
             ruffes
             ,
             long
             cloake
             ,
             and
             doublet
             french
          
           
             He
             takes
             Tobacco
             ,
             and
             doth
             weare
             a
             locke
             .
          
           
             And
             wastes
             more
             time
             in
             dressing
             then
             a
             wench
             .
          
           
             Yet
             this
             new
             fangled
             youth
             ,
             made
             for
             these
             times
          
           
             Doth
             aboue
             all
             ,
             praise
             old
             
               George
               Gascoines
            
             times
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Cineam
             .
             23.
             
          
           
             VVHen
             Cineas
             comes
             amongst
             his
             friends
             in
             morning
             ▪
          
           
             He
             slyly
             spies
             who
             first
             his
             cap
             doth
             moue
          
           
             Him
             he
             salutes
             ,
             the
             rest
             so
             grimly
             scorning
          
           
             As
             if
             for
             euer
             they
             had
             lost
             his
             loue
             ,
          
           
             I
             seeing
             how
             it
             doth
             the
             humour
             fit
             .
          
           
             Of
             this
             fond
             gull
             to
             be
             saluted
             first
             .
          
           
             Catch
             at
             my
             cap
             ,
             but
             moue
             it
             not
             a
             whit
          
           
             Which
             to
             perceiuing
             he
             seemes
             for
             spite
             to
             burst
          
           
             But
             Cineas
             ,
             why
             expect
             you
             more
             of
             me
             ,
          
           
             Then
             I
             of
             you
             ?
             I
             am
             as
             good
             a
             man
             ,
          
           
             And
             better
             too
             by
             many
             a
             quality
             .
          
           
             For
             vault
             ,
             and
             daunce
             ,
             and
             sence
             and
             time
             I
             can
             .
          
           
             You
             keep
             a
             whore
             at
             your
             owne
             charge
             men
             tell
             me
             ,
          
           
             Indeed
             friend
             
               (
               Cineas
            
             )
             therein
             you
             excell
             me
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Gallum
             .
             24.
             
          
           
             GAllus
             hath
             bin
             this
             Summer
             time
             in
             Friesland
             ,
          
           
             And
             now
             return'd
             he
             speakes
             such
             warlike
             wordes
             ▪
          
           
             As
             if
             I
             could
             their
             English
             vnderstand
             ,
          
           
             I
             feare
             me
             they
             would
             cut
             my
             throat
             like
             swordes
             .
          
           
           
             He
             talkes
             of
             counter-scar●●es
             and
             casomates
             ,
          
           
             Of
             parapets
             ,
             of
             curteneys
             and
             pallizadois
             ,
          
           
             Of
             flankers
             ,
             rauelings
             ,
             gabions
             he
             prates
             ,
          
           
             And
             of
             false
             baites
             ,
             and
             sallies
             ,
             and
             scaladoes
             ,
          
           
             But
             to
             requite
             such
             gulling
             tearmes
             as
             these
             ,
          
           
             With
             words
             of
             my
             profession
             I
             reply
             :
          
           
             I
             tell
             of
             fourching
             vouchers
             ,
             and
             counterpleas
             ,
          
           
             Of
             withernames
             ,
             essoynes
             and
             champarty
             .
          
           
             So
             neither
             of
             vs
             vnderstanding
             one
             an
             other
             ,
          
           
             We
             part
             as
             wise
             ,
             as
             when
             we
             came
             together
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Decium
             .
             25.
             
          
           
             A
             Vdacious
             Painters
             haue
             nine
             worthies
             made
             ,
          
           
             But
             Poet
             Decius
             more
             audacious
             farre
          
           
             Making
             his
             mistris
             march
             with
             men
             of
             warre
             .
          
           
             With
             title
             of
             tenth
             worthy
             doth
             her
             lade
             .
          
           
             Me
             thinks
             that
             gull
             did
             vse
             his
             tearmes
             as
             ●it
          
           
             Which
             tearm'd
             his
             loue
             a
             giant
             for
             her
             wit.
             
          
        
         
           
             In
             Gellam
             .
             26.
             
          
           
             IF
             Gellas
             beauty
             be
             examined
          
           
             She
             hath
             a
             dull
             dead
             eye
             ,
             a
             saddle
             nose
             ,
          
           
             An
             ill
             shapte
             face
             with
             morphew
             ouerspread
             .
          
           
             And
             rotten
             teeth
             which
             she
             in
             laughing
             showes
             .
          
           
             Briefly
             she
             is
             the
             filthiest
             wench
             in
             towne
             ,
          
           
             Of
             all
             that
             doe
             the
             art
             of
             whoring
             vse
             :
          
           
             But
             when
             she
             hath
             put
             on
             her
             sattin-gowne
             ,
          
           
             Her
             out
             lawne
             apron
             ,
             and
             her
             veluet
             shoes
             .
          
           
             Her
             greene
             silk
             stockings
             ,
             and
             her
             petticoate
             ,
          
           
             Of
             taffa●y
             ,
             with
             goulden
             friendge
             a-round
             ,
          
           
             And
             is
             withall
             perfumed
             with
             ciuet
             hot
             ,
          
           
             Which
             doth
             her
             valiant
             stinking
             breath
             confound
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             she
             with
             these
             additions
             is
             no
             more
             ,
          
           
             Then
             a
             sweet
             ,
             filthy
             ,
             fine
             ill-fauoured
             whore
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             In
             Sillam
             .
             27.
             
          
           
             SYlla
             is
             often
             challenged
             to
             the
             field
             ,
          
           
             To
             answer
             as
             a
             Gentleman
             his
             foes
             ;
          
           
             But
             then
             he
             doth
             this
             only
             answer
             yeeld
             ,
          
           
             That
             he
             hath
             liuings
             and
             faire
             lands
             to
             lose
             .
          
           
             Silla
             ,
             if
             none
             but
             beggars
             valiant
             were
             ,
          
           
             The
             King
             of
             Spaine
             would
             put
             vs
             all
             in
             feare
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Sillam
             .
             28.
             
          
           
             VVHo
             dares
             affirme
             that
             Silla
             dare
             not
             fight
             ,
          
           
             When
             I
             dare
             sweare
             hee
             dares
             aduenture
             more
             ,
          
           
             Then
             the
             most
             braue
             and
             all-daring
             wight
             ,
          
           
             That
             euer
             armes
             with
             resolution
             bore
             .
          
           
             He
             that
             dares
             touch
             the
             most
             vnholsome
             whore
             ,
          
           
             That
             euer
             was
             retir'd
             into
             the
             Spittle
             .
          
           
             And
             dares
             court
             w●nches
             standing
             at
             a
             dore
             ,
          
           
             (
             The
             portion
             of
             his
             wit
             being
             passing
             litle
             )
          
           
             He
             that
             dares
             giue
             his
             dearest
             friends
             offences
             ,
          
           
             Which
             other
             valiant
             fooles
             doe
             feare
             to
             do
             :
          
           
             And
             when
             a
             feauer
             doth
             confound
             his
             senco●
             ,
          
           
             Dare
             eate
             raw-beefe
             ,
             and
             drinke
             strong
             wine
             thereto
             .
          
           
             He
             that
             dares
             take
             Tobacco
             on
             the
             stage
             ,
          
           
             Dares
             man
             a
             whore
             at
             noone-day
             through
             the
             streete
             ,
          
           
             Dares
             daunce
             in
             Pawles
             ,
             and
             in
             this
             formall
             age
             ,
          
           
             Dares
             say
             and
             do
             what
             euer
             is
             vnmeete
             ,
          
           
             Whome
             feare
             of
             shame
             could
             neuer
             yet
             affright
             ,
          
           
             Who
             dares
             affirme
             that
             Silla
             dares
             not
             fight
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Haywodum
             .
             29.
             
          
           
             HAywood
             that
             did
             in
             Epigrames
             excell
             ,
          
           
             Is
             now
             put
             downe
             since
             my
             light
             Muse
             arose
             .
          
           
             As
             Buckets
             are
             put
             downe
             into
             a
             Well
             ,
          
           
             Or
             as
             a
             schoole
             boy
             putteth
             downe
             his
             hose
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             In
             Dacum
             .
             30.
             
          
           
             AMongst
             the
             Poets
             Dacus
             numbered
             is
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             could
             he
             neuer
             ▪
             make
             an
             English
             time
             ,
          
           
             But
             some
             prose
             speeches
             I
             haue
             heard
             of
             his
             ,
          
           
             Which
             haue
             binspoken
             many
             a
             hundred
             time
             .
          
           
             The
             man
             that
             keepes
             the
             Eliphant
             hath
             one
             ,
          
           
             Wherein
             he
             tells
             the
             wonders
             of
             the
             beast
             ,
          
           
             An
             other
             Bankes●
             pronounced
             long
             a-gon
             ,
          
           
             When
             he
             his
             curtalls
             qualities
             exprest
             :
          
           
             He
             first
             taught
             him
             that
             keeps
             the
             monuments
             ,
          
           
             At
             Westminster
             ,
             his
             formall
             tale
             to
             say
             .
          
           
             And
             also
             him
             with
             Puppets
             represents
             ,
          
           
             And
             also
             him
             which
             with
             the
             Ape
             doth
             play
             :
          
           
             Though
             all
             his
             Poetry
             be
             like
             to
             this
             ,
          
           
             Amongst
             the
             Poets
             Dacus
             numbred
             is
             ,
          
        
         
           
             In
             Priscum
             .
             31.
             
          
           
             VVHen
             Priscus
             raisde
             from
             low
             to
             high
             estate
             ,
          
           
             Rod
             through
             the
             streete
             in
             pompous
             iollitie
             ,
          
           
             Ca●us
             his
             poore
             familliar
             friend
             of
             late
             ,
          
           
             Be-spake
             him
             thus
             :
             Sir
             now
             you
             know
             not
             me
             .
          
           
             'T
             is
             likly
             friend
             (
             quoth
             Priscus
             )
             to
             be
             so
          
           
             For
             at
             this
             time
             my selfe
             I
             do
             not
             know
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Brunam
             .
             32.
             
          
           
             BRunus
             which
             deemes
             himselfe
             a
             faire
             sweete
             youth
             ,
          
           
             Is
             thirty
             nine
             yeares
             of
             age
             at
             least
             :
          
           
             Yet
             was
             he
             neuer
             ,
             to
             confesse
             the
             truth
             ,
          
           
             But
             a
             dry
             staruling
             when
             he
             was
             at
             best
             .
          
           
             This
             gull
             was
             sicke
             to
             shew
             his
             Night-cap
             fine
             .
          
           
             And
             his
             wrought
             pillow
             ouer-spread
             with
             lawne
             ,
          
           
             But
             hath
             bin
             well
             since
             his
             griefes
             cause
             hath
             line
             ,
          
           
             At
             Trollups
             by
             Saint
             Clements
             Church
             in
             pawne
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             In
             Francum
             .
             33.
             
          
           
             VVHen
             Francus
             comes
             to
             solace
             with
             his
             whore
          
           
             He
             sends
             for
             rods
             ,
             &
             strips
             himselfe
             stark
             naked
             ;
          
           
             For
             his
             lust
             sleepes
             ,
             and
             will
             not
             rise
             before
             ,
          
           
             By
             whiping
             of
             the
             wench
             it
             be
             awaked
             .
          
           
             I
             enuey
             him
             not
             ,
             but
             wish
             I
             had
             the
             power
             ,
          
           
             To
             make
             my selfe
             his
             wench
             but
             one
             halfe
             houre
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Castorem
             .
             34.
             
          
           
             OF
             speaking
             well
             ,
             why
             do
             we
             learne
             the
             skill
             ?
          
           
             Hoping
             thereby
             honor
             and
             wealth
             to
             gaine
             .
          
           
             Sith
             rayling
             Castor
             doth
             by
             speaking
             ill
             ,
          
           
             Opinion
             of
             much
             wit
             and
             golde
             obtaine
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Septimium
             .
             35.
             
          
           
             SEptimus
             liues
             ,
             and
             is
             like
             Garlike
             seene
             ,
          
           
             For
             though
             ▪
             his
             head
             be
             white
             ,
             his
             blade
             is
             greene
             :
          
           
             His
             old
             mad
             Coult
             deserues
             a
             Martyres
             praise
             ,
          
           
             For
             he
             was
             burned
             in
             Queene
             Maryes
             daies
             .
          
        
         
           
             Of
             Tobacco
             .
             36.
             
          
           
             HOmer
             of
             Moly
             ,
             and
             Nepenthe
             sings
          
           
             Moly
             the
             gods
             most
             soueraigne
             hearb
             diuine
             ,
          
           
             Nepenthe
             Heauens
             drinke
             most
             gladnesse
             brings
             ,
          
           
             Hearts
             griefe
             expels
             ,
             and
             doth
             the
             wits
             refine
             :
          
           
             But
             this
             our
             age
             another
             world
             hath
             found
             .
          
           
             From
             whence
             a
             hearb
             of
             Heauenly
             power
             is
             bought
             ,
          
           
             Moly
             is
             not
             so
             soueraigne
             for
             a
             wound
             .
          
           
             Nor
             hath
             Nepenthe
             so
             great
             wonders
             wrought
             .
          
           
             It
             is
             Tobacco
             ,
             whose
             sweet
             substanciall
             fume
             ,
          
           
             The
             hellish
             torment
             of
             the
             teeth
             doth
             ease
             ,
          
           
             By
             drawing
             downe
             ,
             and
             drying
             vp
             the
             rewme
             ,
          
           
             The
             Mother
             and
             the
             Nurse
             of
             each
             diease
             ,
          
           
             It
             is
             Tobacco
             that
             doth
             cold
             expell
             ,
          
           
             And
             cleares
             the
             obstructions
             of
             the
             Arteries
             ,
          
           
           
             And
             surfets
             threatning
             Death
             in
             generall
             .
          
           
             Decocting
             all
             the
             stomacks
             crudities
             ,
          
           
             It
             is
             Tobacco
             which
             hath
             power
             to
             clarifie
             ,
          
           
             The
             cloudy
             mists
             before
             dim
             eyes
             appearing
             ,
          
           
             It
             is
             Tobacco
             which
             hath
             power
             to
             ratifie
             ,
          
           
             The
             grose
             humor
             which
             doth
             stop
             the
             hearing
             ,
          
           
             The
             wasting
             Hectique
             ,
             and
             the
             Quartain
             feuer
             ,
          
           
             Which
             doth
             of
             Phisique
             make
             a
             mockerie
             ,
          
           
             The
             gowt
             it
             cures
             ,
             and
             helps
             ill
             breaths
             for
             euer
             ,
          
           
             Whether
             the
             cause
             in
             Teeth
             or
             stomach
             be
             ,
          
           
             And
             though
             il
             breath
             ,
             were
             by
             it
             but
             confounded
             .
          
           
             Yet
             that
             Medicine
             it
             doth
             farre
             excell
             ,
          
           
             Which
             by
             sir
             
               Thomas
               Moore
            
             hath
             bin
             propounded
             .
          
           
             For
             this
             is
             thought
             a
             Gentle-man
             like
             smell
             ,
          
           
             O
             that
             I
             were
             one
             of
             these
             Mounti-bankes
             ,
          
           
             Which
             praise
             their
             Oyles
             ,
             and
             Powders
             which
             they
             sell
             ,
          
           
             My
             customers
             would
             giue
             me
             coyne
             with
             thankes
             ,
          
           
             I
             for
             this
             ware
             ,
             forfooth
             a
             Tale
             would
             tell
             .
          
           
             Yet
             would
             I
             vse
             none
             of
             these
             tearmes
             before
             ,
          
           
             I
             would
             but
             say
             ,
             that
             it
             the
             Poxe
             will
             cure
             :
          
           
             This
             were
             enough
             ,
             without
             discoursing
             more
             ,
          
           
             All
             our
             braue
             gallants
             in
             the
             towne
             t'
             allure
             ,
          
        
         
           
             In
             Crassum
             .
             37.
             
          
           
             CRassus
             his
             lyes
             are
             not
             pernitious
             lyes
             ,
          
           
             But
             pleasant
             fictious
             hurtfull
             vnto
             none
             :
          
           
             But
             to
             himselfe
             ,
             for
             no
             man
             counts
             him
             wise
             ,
          
           
             To
             tell
             for
             truth
             ,
             that
             which
             for
             false
             is
             knowne
             .
          
           
             He
             sweares
             that
             Gaunt
             is
             three
             score
             miles
             about
             ,
          
           
             And
             that
             the
             bridge
             at
             Paris
             on
             the
             Seyn
             ,
          
           
             Is
             of
             such
             thicknes
             ,
             length
             and
             breadth
             throughout
             ,
          
           
             That
             sixe
             score
             Arches
             can
             it
             scarce
             sustaine
             .
          
           
             He
             sweares
             he
             saw
             so
             great
             a
             dead
             mans
             scull
             ,
          
           
           
             At
             Canterbury
             digd
             out
             of
             the
             ground
             :
          
           
             That
             would
             containe
             of
             wheat
             ,
             three
             bushels
             full
             ,
          
           
             And
             that
             in
             kent
             are
             twenty
             yeomen
             found
             ,
          
           
             Of
             which
             the
             poorest
             euery
             yeare
             dispends
             .
          
           
             Fiue
             thousand
             pound
             ;
             these
             and
             fiue
             thousand
             mo
             ,
          
           
             So
             oft
             he
             hath
             teceited
             to
             his
             friends
             :
          
           
             That
             now
             himselfe
             ,
             perswades
             himselfe
             'tis
             so
             .
          
           
             But
             why
             doth
             Crassus
             tell
             his
             lyes
             so
             rife
             ,
          
           
             Of
             Bridges
             ,
             Townes
             ,
             and
             things
             that
             haue
             no
             life
             .
          
           
             He
             is
             a
             Lawyer
             ,
             and
             doth
             well
             espie
             ,
          
           
             That
             for
             such
             lyes
             an
             action
             will
             not
             lye
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Philonem
             .
             38.
             
          
           
             PHilo
             the
             Lawyer
             and
             the
             Fortune
             teller
             ,
          
           
             The
             schoolmaster
             ,
             the
             midwife
             and
             the
             bawd
             :
          
           
             The
             coniurer
             ,
             the
             buyer
             ,
             and
             the
             seller
             ,
          
           
             Of
             painting
             which
             with
             breathing
             will
             be
             thawd
             ,
          
           
             Doth
             practise
             Phisicke
             ,
             aud
             his
             credit
             growes
             .
          
           
             As
             doth
             the
             Ballad
             singers
             auditorie
             .
          
           
             Which
             hath
             at
             Temple
             barre
             his
             standing
             chose
             ,
          
           
             And
             to
             the
             vulgar
             sings
             an
             Ale-house
             story
             .
          
           
             First
             stands
             a
             Porter
             ,
             then
             an
             Oyster
             wife
             ,
          
           
             Doth
             stint
             her
             cry
             ,
             and
             stay
             her
             steps
             to
             heare
             him
             ,
          
           
             Then
             comes
             a
             cut-purse
             ready
             with
             a
             knife
             ,
          
           
             And
             then
             a
             country
             client
             passeth
             neere
             him
             .
          
           
             There
             stands
             the
             constable
             ,
             there
             stands
             the
             whore
             ,
          
           
             And
             listning
             to
             the
             song
             ,
             heed
             not
             each
             other
             .
          
           
             There
             by
             the
             serieant
             stands
             the
             debitor
             ,
          
           
             And
             doth
             no
             more
             mistrust
             him
             then
             his
             brother
             :
          
           
             Thus
             Orpheus
             to
             such
             giueth
             Musique
             ,
          
           
             And
             Philo
             to
             such
             patients
             giueth
             Phisicke
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Puscum
             .
             39.
             
          
           
             FVscus
             is
             fe●e
             ,
             and
             hath
             the
             world
             at
             will
             ,
          
           
           
             Yet
             in
             the
             course
             of
             life
             that
             he
             doth
             leade
             :
          
           
             He
             's
             like
             a
             horse
             which
             turning
             round
             a
             mill
             ,
          
           
             Doth
             alwaies
             in
             the
             selfe
             same
             circle
             treade
             :
          
           
             First
             he
             doth
             rise
             at
             ten
             and
             at
             eleuen
          
           
             He
             goes
             to
             Gyls
             ,
             where
             he
             doth
             eate
             til
             one
             ,
          
           
             Then
             sees
             a
             play
             till
             sixe
             ,
             and
             ●ups
             at
             seauen
             ,
          
           
             And
             after
             supper
             ,
             straight
             to
             bed
             is
             gone
          
           
             And
             there
             till
             ten
             next
             day
             he
             doth
             remaine
             ,
          
           
             And
             then
             he
             dines
             ,
             then
             sees
             a
             Commedy
             ,
          
           
             And
             then
             he
             suppes
             ,
             and
             goes
             to
             bed
             againe
             :
          
           
             Thus
             round
             he
             runs
             without
             variety
             :
          
           
             Saue
             that
             sometimes
             he
             comes
             not
             to
             the
             play
          
           
             But
             falls
             into
             a
             whore-house
             by
             the
             way
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Afrum
             40.
             
          
           
             THe
             smel
             feast
             After
             ,
             trauailes
             to
             the
             Burse
          
           
             Twice
             euery
             day
             the
             newest
             news
             to
             heare
          
           
             Which
             when
             he
             hath
             no
             money
             in
             his
             purse
             ,
          
           
             To
             rich
             mens
             tables
             he
             doth
             often
             beare
             :
          
           
             He
             tels
             how
             Grenigen
             is
             taken
             in
             ,
          
           
             By
             the
             braue
             conduct
             of
             illustrious
             Vere
             :
          
           
             And
             how
             the
             Spanish
             forces
             Brest
             would
             win
             ,
          
           
             But
             that
             they
             do
             victorious
             Norris
             feare
             .
          
           
             No
             sooner
             is
             a
             ship
             at
             sea
             surpris'd
             ,
          
           
             But
             straight
             he
             learnes
             the
             newes
             and
             doth
             disclose
             it
             .
          
           
             Faire
             written
             in
             a
             scrowle
             he
             hath
             names
             ,
          
           
             Of
             all
             the
             widowes
             which
             the
             plague
             hath
             made
             ,
          
           
             And
             persons
             ,
             times
             and
             places
             ,
             still
             he
             frames
             :
          
           
             To
             euery
             tale
             the
             better
             to
             perswade
             :
          
           
             We
             call
             him
             Fame
             ,
             for
             that
             the
             wide-mouth
             slaue
             ,
          
           
             Will
             eate
             as
             fast
             as
             he
             wil
             vtter
             lies
          
           
             For
             Fame
             it
             said
             an
             hundr●d
             mouthes
             to
             haue
             ,
          
           
             And
             he
             eates
             more
             then
             would
             fiue
             score
             suffice
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             In
             Paulam
             .
             41.
             
          
           
             BY
             lawfull
             mart
             ,
             and
             by
             vnlawfull
             stealth
             ,
          
           
             Paulus
             in
             spite
             of
             enuy
             fortunate
             ,
          
           
             Deriues
             out
             of
             the
             Ocean
             so
             much
             wealth
             ,
          
           
             As
             he
             may
             well
             maintaine
             a
             Lords
             estate
             ,
          
           
             But
             on
             the
             land
             a
             little
             gulfe
             there
             is
             ,
          
           
             Wherein
             he
             drowneth
             all
             the
             wealth
             of
             his
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Licum
             .
             42.
             
          
           
             LYeus
             which
             lately
             is
             to
             Venice
             gone
             ,
          
           
             Shall
             if
             he
             do
             returne
             ,
             gaine
             three
             for
             one
             :
          
           
             But
             ten
             to
             one
             ,
             his
             knowledge
             land
             his
             wit
             ,
          
           
             Will
             not
             be
             betered
             or
             increas'd
             a
             whit
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Publium
             .
             43.
             
          
           
             PVblius
             student
             at
             the
             comon
             Law
             ,
          
           
             Of●
             cleaues
             his
             bookes
             ,
             and
             for
             his
             recreation
             :
          
           
             To
             Paris-garden
             doth
             himselfe
             withdraw
             ,
          
           
             Where
             he
             is
             rauisht
             with
             such
             delectation
          
           
             As
             downe
             amongst
             the
             Beares
             and
             Dogs
             he
             goes
          
           
             Where
             whilst
             he
             skiping
             cries
             to
             head
             ,
             to
             head
             .
          
           
             His
             satten
             doublet
             and
             his
             veluet
             hose
             ,
          
           
             Are
             all
             with
             spittle
             from
             aboue
             be-spread
             .
          
           
             When
             he
             is
             like
             his
             fathers
             country
             shall
             ,
          
           
             Stinking
             with
             dogs
             ,
             and
             muted
             all
             with
             haukes
             .
          
           
             And
             rightly
             too
             on
             him
             this
             filth
             doth
             fall
             ,
          
           
             Which
             for
             such
             filthy
             sports
             his
             bookes
             for
             sakes
             ,
          
           
             Leauing
             old
             
               Ployden
               ,
               Dier
            
             and
             Brooke
             alone
             ,
          
           
             To
             see
             old
             
               Harry
               Hunkes
            
             and
             Sacarson
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Sillam
             .
             44.
             
          
           
             VVHen
             I
             this
             proposition
             had
             defended
             ,
          
           
             A
             coward
             cannot
             be
             an
             honest
             man
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             Silla
             seemest
             forthwith
             to
             be
             offended
             ,
          
           
             And
             holds
             the
             contrary
             and
             swea●es
             he
             can
             .
          
           
           
             But
             when
             I
             tell
             thee
             that
             he
             will
             forsake
          
           
             His
             dearest
             friend
             ,
             in
             perill
             of
             his
             life
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             then
             art
             chang'd
             and
             faist
             thou
             didst
             mistake
             ,
          
           
             And
             so
             we
             end
             our
             argument
             and
             strife
             .
          
           
             Yet
             I
             thinke
             oft
             ,
             and
             thinke
             I
             thinke
             aright
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             argument
             argues
             thou
             wilt
             not
             fight
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Dacum
             .
             45.
             
          
           
             DAcus
             with
             some
             good
             colour
             and
             pretence
             ,
          
           
             Tearmes
             his
             loues
             beauty
             silent
             eloquence
             :
          
           
             For
             she
             doth
             lay
             more
             colours
             on
             her
             face
             ,
          
           
             Then
             euer
             Tully
             vs'd
             his
             speech
             to
             grace
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Marcum
             .
             46.
             
          
           
             VVHy
             dost
             thou
             Marcus
             in
             thy
             misery
             ,
          
           
             Raile
             and
             blaspheme
             ,
             and
             call
             the
             heaue
             ●vnkind
             ,
          
           
             The
             heauens
             do
             owe
             no
             kindness
             vnto
             thee
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             hast
             the
             heauens
             so
             little
             in
             thy
             minde
             ,
          
           
             For
             in
             thy
             life
             thou
             neuer
             vsest
             prayer
             ,
          
           
             But
             at
             primero
             ,
             to
             encounter
             faire
             ,
          
        
         
           
             Meditations
             of
             a
             Gull.
             47.
             
          
           
             SEE
             yonder
             melancholy
             Gentleman
             ,
          
           
             Which
             hood-winked
             with
             his
             hat
             ,
             alone
             doth
             sit
             ,
          
           
             Thinke
             what
             he
             thinkes
             and
             tell
             me
             if
             you
             can
             ,
          
           
             What
             great
             affaires
             troubles
             his
             little
             wit.
          
           
             He
             thinkes
             not
             of
             the
             war
             twixt
             France
             and
             Spaine
             ,
          
           
             Whether
             it
             be
             for
             Europs
             '
             good
             or
             ill
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             whether
             the
             Empire
             can
             it selfe
             maintaine
          
           
             Against
             the
             Turkish
             power
             encroching
             still
             .
          
           
             Nor
             what
             great
             towne
             in
             all
             the
             Netherlands
             ,
          
           
             The
             States
             determine
             to
             besiedge
             this
             spring
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             how
             the
             Scottish
             pollicy
             now
             stands
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             what
             becomes
             of
             the
             Irish
             mutining
             .
          
           
             But
             he
             doth
             seriously
             bethinke
             him
             whether
          
           
           
             Of
             the
             guld
             people
             he
             the
             more
             esteem'd
             ,
          
           
             For
             his
             long
             cloake
             ,
             or
             his
             great
             blacke
             feather
             ,
          
           
             By
             which
             each
             gull
             is
             now
             a
             gallant
             deem'd
             ,
          
           
             Or
             of
             a
             Iourney
             hee
             deliberates
             ,
          
           
             To
             Parris-garden
             cocke-pit
             or
             the
             play
             :
          
           
             Or
             how
             to
             steale
             a
             dogge
             he
             miditates
             ,
          
           
             Or
             what
             he
             shall
             vnto
             his
             mistris
             say
             :
          
           
             Yet
             with
             these
             thoughts
             he
             thinks
             himselfe
             most
             sit
             ,
          
           
             To
             be
             of
             Counsell
             with
             a
             King
             for
             wit.
             
          
        
         
           
             Ad
             Musam
             .
             48.
             
          
           
             PEace
             idle
             Muse
             ,
             haue
             done
             ,
             for
             it
             is
             time
             ,
          
           
             Since
             lowsie
             Ponticus
             enuies
             my
             fame
             ,
          
           
             And
             sweares
             the
             better
             sort
             are
             much
             too
             blame
          
           
             To
             make
             me
             so
             well
             knowne
             for
             my
             ill
             rime
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             Bankes
             his
             horse
             is
             better
             knowne
             then
             he
             ,
          
           
             So
             are
             the
             Cammels
             and
             the
             westerne
             Hog
             ,
          
           
             And
             so
             is
             Lepidus
             his
             printed
             dogge
             :
          
           
             Why
             doth
             not
             Pontious
             their
             fames
             enuy
             .
          
           
             Besides
             this
             muse
             of
             mine
             ,
             and
             the
             black
             fether
          
           
             Grew
             both
             together
             fresh
             in
             estimation
             ,
          
           
             And
             both
             growne
             stale
             ,
             were
             cast
             away
             together
             :
          
           
             What
             fame
             is
             this
             that
             scarse
             lasts
             out
             a
             fashion
             :
          
           
             Onely
             this
             last
             in
             credit
             doth
             remaine
             ,
          
           
             That
             from
             hence-forth
             ,
             each
             bastard
             cast
             forth
             rime
          
           
             Which
             doth
             but
             sauour
             of
             ●
             libell
             vaine
             ,
          
           
             Shall
             call
             me
             father
             ,
             and
             be
             thought
             my
             crime
             .
          
           
             So
             dull
             and
             with
             so
             little
             sence
             endued
             ,
          
           
             Is
             my
             grosse
             headed
             iudge
             the
             multitude
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               D.
               
            
          
           
             FINIS
             .
          
        
      
    
     
  

