And both grown stale, were cast away together:
What fame is this that scarce lasts out a fashion?
Only this last in credit doth remain,

That from henceforth each bastard cast forth rhyme,
Which doth but savour of a libel vein,
Shall call me father, and be thought my crime;
So dull and with so little sense endued,

Is my gross headed judge, the multitude.

I. D.

IGNOTO.

I LOVE thee not for sacred chastity.
Who loves for that? nor for thy sprightly wit:
I love thee not for thy sweet modesty,
Which makes thee in perfection's throne to sit.

I love thee not for thy enchanting eye,
Thy beauty ravishing perfection:
I love thee not for unchaste luxury,
Nor for thy body's fair proportion.

I love thee not for that my soul doth dance, And leap with pleasure when those lips of thine, Give musical and graceful utterance,

To some (by thee made happy) poet's line.

I love thee not for voice or slender small,
But wilt thou know wherefore? fair sweet for all.

'Faith wench! I cannot court thy sprightly eyes,
With the base viol placed between my thighs:
I cannot lisp, nor to some fiddle sing,
Nor run upon a high stretched minikin.

I cannot whine in puling elegies,
Intombing Cupid with sad obsequies:

I am not fashion'd for these amorous times,
To court thy beauty with lascivious rhymes:
I cannot dally, caper, dance and sing,
Oiling my saint with supple sonnetting:
I cannot cross my arms, or sigh aye me,
Aye me forlorn, egregious foppery!
I cannot buss thy fill, play with thy hair,
Swearing by love, thou art most debonnaire:
Not I by cock, but shall tell thee roundly,
Hark in thine ear, zounds I can (
soundly.

Sweet wench I love thee, yet I will not sue,
Or shew my love as musky courtiers do;

) thee

I'll not carouse a health to honour thee,
In this same bezzling drunken courtesy:
And when all's quaff'd, eat up my boosing glass,
In glory that I am thy servile ass.

Nor will I wear a rotten Bourbon lock,
As some sworn peasant to a female smock.
Well-featured lass, thou knowest I love thee dear,
Yet for thy sake I will not bore mine ear,
To hang thy dirty silken shoe-tires there:
Nor for thy love will I once gnash a brick,
Or some pied colours in my bonnet stick.
But by the chaps of hell to do thee good,
I'll freely spend my thrice decocted blood.

THE

FIRST BOOK OF LUCAN,

TRANSLATED BY C. MARLOWE.

30

VOL. II.