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Tell faith it's fled the city,
Tell how the country erreth,
And if they do reply,
So when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee, done blabbing;
Yet stab at thee who will,
The Nymph's Reply to the passionate Shepherd.
IF that the world and love were young,
But time drives flocks from field to fold,
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds,
But could youth last, and love still breed, Had joys no date—nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee and be thy love.
As at noon Dulcina rested
In her sweet and shady bower, Came a shepherd, and requested
In her lap to sleep an hour.
But from her look
A wound he took
The nymph he prays:
Whereto she says;
But in vain she did conjure him
To depart her presence so, Having a thousand tongues t'allure him, And but one to bid him go.
When lips invite,
And eyes delight,
What boots to say,
He demands, what time for pleasure
Can there be more fit than now? She says, night gives love that leisure Which the day doth not allow,
He says, the sight
Improves delight; Which she denies ; night's murky noon
In Venus' plays
Makes bold (she says); Forego me now, come to me soon.
But what promise or profession
From his hands could purchase scope ? Who would sell the sweet possession Of such beauty for a hope?
Or for the sight
Of lingering night
Tho' ne'er so fair
Her speeches were,
How at last agreed these lovers ?
She was fair, and he was young; The tongue may tell what th'
discovers, Joys unseen are never sung.
Did she consent
Or he relent,
Left he her a maid
Or not, she said
THE SILENT LOVER.
Passions are liken'd best to floods and streams;
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb: So, when affections yield discourse, it seems
The bottom is but shallow whence they come. They that are rich in words, must needs discover, They are but poor in that which makes a lover.
Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart,
The merit of true passion,
Who sues for no compassion.
Since if my plaints were not t' approve
The conquest of thy beauty,
But fear t exceed my duty.
For, knowing that I sue to serve,
A saint of such perfection, As all desire, but none deserve
A place in her affection.
I rather choose to want relief,
Than venture the revealing :