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Trips she, it likes me well, plods she, what than ?
She would be nimbler lying with a man.
And when one sweetly sings, then straight I long,
To quaver on her lips even in her song;
Or if one touch the lute with art and cunning,
Who would not love those nimble hands for their

swift running?
And she I like that with a majesty,


her arms, and makes low courtesy,
To leave myself that am in love withal,
Some one of these might make the chastest fall.
If she be tall, she's like an Amazon,
And therefore fills the bed she lies upon :
If short, she lies the rounder to speak troth,
Both short and long please me for I love both:
If her white neck be shadow'd with black hair,
Why so was Leda's, yet was Leda fair.
Yellow-tress'd is she, then on the morn think I,
My love alludes to every history:
A young wench pleaseth, and an old is good,
This for her looks, that for her womanhood,
Nay what is she, that any Roman loves,
But my ambitious ranging mind approves?

Ad Grecinum quod eodem tempore duas amet.
Grecinus (well I wot) thou told'st me once,
I could not be in love with two at once;
By thee deceiv'd, by thee surprised am I,
For now I love two women equally:

Both are well favoured, both rich in array,
Which is the loveliest it is hard to say:
This seems the fairest, so doth that to me,
This doth please me most, and so doth she,
Even as a boat toss'd by contrary wind
So with this love and that wavers my mind.
Venus why doublest thou my endless smart?
Was not one wench enough to grieve my heart?
Why add'st thou stars to heaven, leaves to green

And to the deep vast sea fresh water floods ?
Yet this is better far than lie alone,
Let such as be mine enemies have none;
Yea, let my foes sleep in an empty bed,
And in the midst their bodies largely spread :

soft love rouse up my drowsy eyes,
And from my mistress' bosom let me rise :
Let one wench cloy me with sweet love's delight,
If one can do't, if noi, two every night.
Though I am slender, I have store of pith,
Nor want I strength, but weight to press her with:
Pleasure adds fuel to my lustful fire,

pay them home with that they most desire : Oft have I spent the night in wantonness, And in the morn been lively ne'ertheless, He's happy whom Love's mutual skirmish slays, And to the gods for that death Ovid prays. Let soldier chase his enemies amain, And with his blood eternal honour gain, Let merchants seek wealth with perjur'd lips, And being wrecked, carouse the sea tir'd by their ships, VOL. II.


But when I die, would I might droop with doing,
And in the midst thereof, let my soul going,
That at my funerals some may weeping cry,
Even as he led his life, so did he die.

AMORUM, LIB. III. ELEGIA 6. Quod ab amica receptus cum ea coire non potuit, conqueritur. Either she was foul, or her attire was bad, Or she was not the wench I wished t' have had; Idly I lay with her, as if I lov'd her not, And like a burden griev'd the bed that moved pot; Though both of us perform's our true intent, Yet could I not cast anchor where I meant; She on my neck her ivory arins did throw, That were as white as is the Scythian snow, And eagerly she kiss'd me with her tongue, And under mine, her wanton thigh she Aung, Yea, and she sooth'd me up, and called me sir, And used all speech that might provoke and stir, Yet like as if cold hemlock I had drunk, It mocked me, hung down the head and sunk. Like a dull cypher, or rude block I lay, Or shade, or body was I, who can say ? What will my age do ? age I cannot shun, Seeing in my prime, my force is spent and done; I blush, and being youthful, hot, and lusty, I prove neither youth nor man, but old and rusty. Pure rose she, like a nun to sacrifice, Or one that with her tender brother lies,

Yet boarded I the golden Chie twice;
And Libas and the white cheek'd Pitho thrice.
Corinna craved it in a summer's night,
And nine sweet bouts had we before day light,
What, waste my limbs through some Thessalian

May spells and drugs do silly souls such harms?
With virgin wax hath some imbast my joints,
Had pierc'd my liver with sharp needle points ?
Charms change corn to grass and make it die,
By charms are running springs and fountains dry;
By charms mast drops from oaks, from vines grapes fall,
And fruit from trees, when there's no wind at all.
Why not then might my sinews be enchanted,
And I

grow faiut as with some spirit haunted ? To this add shame, shame to perform it quaild me, And was the second cause why vigor faild me: My idle thoughts delighted her no more Than did the robe or garment which she wore, Yet might her touch make youthful Pilius fire, And Tithon livelier than his years require. Even her I had, and she had me in vain, What might I crave more if I ask again? I think the great Gods, griev'd they had bestow'd, This benefit, which lewdly I forslow'd : I wish'd to be received in, and in I got me, To kiss, I kiss'd, to lie with her she let me. Why was I blest? why made king and refus'd it, Chuf-like had I not gold and could not use it? So in aspiring thrives he that told so much, And lookes upon the fruits he cannot touch.

Hath any rose so from a fresh young maid,
As she might straight have gone to church and pray'd.
Well, I believe she kiss'd not as she should,
Nor usd the slight nor cunning which she could ;
Huge oaks, hard adamants might she have mor'd,
And with sweet words cause deaf rocks to have lor'd.
Worthy she was to move both gods and men,
But neither was I man, ne lived then.
Can deaf ears take delight, when Phemius sings,
Or Thamyris in curious painted things?
What sweet thought is there, but I had the same,
And one gave place still as another came.
Yet notwithstanding like one dead it lay,
Drooping more than a rose pull’d yesterday :
Now when he should not jet, he bolts upright,
And craves his task, and seeks to be at fight,
Lie down with shame, and see thou stir do more,
Seeing now thou would'st deceive me as before :
Thou cozend'st me, by thee surpris'd am I,
And bide great hurt with endless infamy.
Nay more, the wench did not disdain a whit,
To take it in her hand and play with it,
But when she saw it would by no means stand,
But still dropp'd down, regarding not her hand,
Why mock'st thou me she cried, or being ill,
Who bade the lie down here against thy will?
Either thou’rt witched with blood of frogs new dead,
Or jaded cam'st thou from some other's bed.
With that her loose gown on from me she cast her,
In skipping out her naked feet much grac'd her,

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