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But thou my crown from sad hairs ta'en away,
On this hard threshold till the morning lay.
That when my mistress there beholds thee cast,
She may perceive how we the time did waste.
'Whate'er thou art, farewell, be like me pain'd 1
Careless farewell, with my fault not distain'd
And farewell cruel posts, rough thresholds block,
And doors conjoin'd with an hard iron lock :

Eleg 1A 7.
Ad pacandam amicam, quam verberaverat.

BiN D fast my hands, they have deserved chains,
While rage is absent, take some friend the pains.
For rage against my wench mov'd my rash arm,
My mistress weeps whom my mad hand did harm.
I might have then my parents dear misus'd,
Or holy gods with cruel strokes abus'd.
Why? Ajax master of the seven-fold shield,
Butcher'd the flocks he found in spacious field.
And he who on his mother veng'd his ire, , ,
Against the destinies durst sharp darts require.
Could I therefore her comely tresses tear?
Yet was she graced with her ruffled hair.
So fair she was, Atalanta she resembled,

Before whose bow th’Arcadian wild beasts trembled.

Such Ariadne was, when she bewails,
Her perjur’d Theseus' flying vows and sails.
So, chaste Minerva! did Cassandra fall,
Deflower'd except, within thy temple wall.

That I was mad, and barbarous all men cried, She nothing said, pale fear her tongue had tied. But secretly her looks with checks did trounce me, Her tears, she silent, guilty did pronounce me. Would of mine arms, my shoulders had been scanted: Better I could part of myself have wanted. To mine own-self have I had strength so furious f : And to myself could I be so injurious? Slaughter and mischief's instruments, no better, Deserved chains these cursed hands shall fetter. Punish'd I am, if I a Roman beat; Over my mistress is my right more great 2 Tydides left worst signs of villany, He first a goddess struck; another I. Yet he harm'd less; whom I profess'd to love, I harm'd : a foe did Diomedes' anger move. Go now thou conqueror, glorious triumphs raise, Pay vows to Jove; engirt thy hairs with bays. And let the troops which shall thy chariot follow, Io, a strong man conquer'd this wench, hollow. Let the sad captive foremost, with locks spread On her white neck but for hurt cheeks, be led. Meter it were her lips were blue with kissing, And on her neck a wanton mark not missing. But though I like a swelling flood was driven, And as a prey unto blind anger given. Was't not enough the fearful wench to chide? Nor thunder, in rough threatnings, haughty pride? Nor shamefully her coat pull over her crown, Which to her waist her girdle still kept down 2

But cruelly her tresses having rent,
My nails to scratch her lovely cheeks I bent.
Sighing she stood, her bloodless white looks shewed,
Like marble from the Parian mountains hewed.
Her half dead joints, and trembling limbs I saw,
Like poplar leaves blown with a stormy flaw.
Or slender cars, with gentle zephyr shaken,
Or waters' tops with the warm south-wind taken.
And down her cheeks, the trickling tears did flow,
Like water gushing from consuming snow.
Then first I did perceive I had offended,
My blood the tears were that from her descended.
Before her feet thrice prostrate down I fell,
My feared hands thrice back she did repel.
But doubt thou not (revenge doth grief appease,)
With thy sharp nails upon my face to seize.
Bescratch mine eyes, spare not my locks to break,
(Anger will help thy hands though ne'er so weak.)
And lest the sad signs of my crime remain,
Put in their place the combed hairs again.

ELIG 1A S.* Execratur lenam qual puellam suam meretricis arte instituebat.

THERE is, whoe'er will know a bawd aright
Give ear, there is an old trot, Dipsas hight.
Her name comes from the thing : she being wise,
Sees not the morn on rosy horses rise.
She magic arts and Thessal charms doth know,
And makes large streams back to their fountains flow;
She knows with grass, with threads on wrong wheels
And what with Mars rank humour may be done.
When she will, clouds the darkened heav'n obscure,
When she will, day shines every where most pure.
(If I have faith) I saw the stars drop blood,
The purple moon with sanguine visage stood;
Her I suspect among night's spirits to fly,
And her old body in birds plumes to lye.
Fame saith as I suspect, and in her eyes,
Two eye-balls shine, and double light thence flies.
Great grandsires from their ancient graves she chides, .
And with long charms the solid earth divides.
She draws chaste women to incontinence,
Nor doth her tongue want harmful eloquence.
By chance I heard her talk, these words she said,
While closely hid betwixt two doors I laid.
Mistress thou knowest, thou hast ablest youth pleas'd,
He staid and on thy looks his gazes seiz'd.
And why should'st not please? none thy face exceeds,
Aye me, thy body hath no worthy weeds.
As thou art fair, would thou wert fortunate,
Wert thou rich, poor should not be my state.
Th' opposed star of Mars hath done thee harm,
Now Mars is gone, Venus thy side doth warm,
And brings good fortune, a rich lover plants
His love on thee, and can supply thy wants.
Such is his form as may with thine compare,
Would he not buy thee, thou for him should'st care.

She blush'd : red shame becomes white cheeks, but
If feigned, doth well; if true, it doth amiss.
When on thy lap thine eyes thou dost deject,
Each one according to his gifts respect.
Perhaps the Sabines rude, when Tatius reign'd,
To yield their love to more than one disdain'd.
Now Mars doth rage abroad without all pity,
And Venus rules in her Eneas' city.
Fair women play, she's chaste whom none will have
Or, but for bashfulness herself would crave.
Shake off these wrinkles that thy front assault,
Wrinkles in beauty is a grievous fault.
Penelope in bows her youth's strength tried,
Of horn the bow was that approv'd their side.
Time flying slides hence closely, and deceives us,
And with swift horses the swift year soon leaves us.
Brass shines with use; good garments would be worn,
Houses not dwelt in, are with filth forlorn.
Beauty not exercis'd with age is spent,
Nor one or two men are sufficient.
Many to rob is more sure, and less hateful,
From dog-kept flocks come preys to wolves most

Behold, what gives the poet but new verses?
And thereof many thousand he rehearses.
The poet's god arrayed in robes of gold,
Of his gilt harp the well tun'd strings doth hold.
Let Homer yield to such as presents bring,

(Trust me) to give, it is a witty thing.

VOL. I. I. I. 33

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