Fear not to thee our court stands open wide,
There shalt be lov'd: Ilia, lay fear aside.
Thou o'er a hundred nymphs or more shalt reign,
For five score nymphs or more our floods contain.
Nor, Roman stock, scorn me so inuch (I crave,)
Gifts than my promise greater thou shalt have.
This said he she her modest eyes held down,
Her woeful bosom a warm shower did drown.
Thrice she prepared to fly, thrice she did stay,
By fear deprived of strength to run away.
Yet rending with enraged thumb her tresses,
Her trembling mouth these unmeet sounds expresses.
O would in any forefathers' tomb deep laid,
My bones had been, while yet I was a maid!
Why being a vestal am I woo'd to wed,
Deflowr'd and stained in unlawful bed.
Why stay I men point at me for a whore,
Shame, that should make me blush, I have no more. This said her coat hoodwink'd her fearful eyes,
And into water desperately she flies.
'Tis said the slipp'ry stream held her breast,
And kindly gave her, what she liked best.
And I believe some wench thou hast affected,
But woods and groves keep your faults undetected.
While thus I spake the waters more abounded,
And from the channel all abroad surrounded.
Mad stream, why do'st our mutual joys defer?
Clown, from my journey why do'st me deter?
How would'st thou flow wert thou a noble flood?
If thy great fame in every region stood?
Thou hast no name, but com'st from snowy mountains,
No certain house thou hast, nor any fountains,
Thy springs are nought but rain and melted snow,
Which wealth, cold winter doth on thee bestow.
Either th'art muddy in mid winter tide,
Or full of dust dost on the dry earth slide.
What thirsty traveller ever drunk of thee?
Who said with grateful voice perpetual be?
Harmful to beasts, and to the fields thou proves,
Perchance these, others, me mine own loss moves.
To this I fondly loves of floods told plainly,
I shame so great names to have us'd so vainly.
I know not what expecting, I ere while,
Nam'd Achelaus, Inachus, and Nile.
But for thy merits I wish thee, white stream,
Dry winters aye, and suns in heat extreme.
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 wish'd t'have had.
Idly I lay with her, as if I lov'd not,
And like a burden griev'd the bed that mov'd not.
Though both of us perform'd our true intent,
Yet could I not cast anchor where I meant.
She on my neck her ivory arms did throw,
Her arms far whiter, then the Scythian snow.
And eagerly she kiss'd me with her tongue,
And under mine her wanton thigh she flung.
Yea, and she sooth'd me up, and call'd me sire,
And us'd 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?
When in my prime my force is spent and done?
I blush, that 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 crav'd it in a summer's night,
And nine sweet bouts we had before day-light.
What waste my limbs through some Thessalian charms?
May spells, and drugs do silly souls such harms?
With virgin wax hath some imbast my joints?
And pierc'd my liver with sharp needles' 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
And fruit from trees when there's no wind at all.
Why might not then my sinews be inchanted?
And I grow faint as with some spirit haunted.
To this, add shame: shame to perform it quail'd me,
And was the second cause why vigour fail'd me.
My idle thoughts delighted her no more,
Than did the robe or garment which she wore.
Yet might her touch make youthful Pylius 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,
The benefit which lewdly I foreslow'd.
I wish'd to be received in, in I get me,
To kiss, I kiss'd; to lie with her, she let me.
Why was I blest? why made king to refuse it?
Chufft like had I not gold and could not use it?
So in a spring thrives he that told so much,
And looks upon the fruits he cannot touch.
Hath any rose so fresh from a young maid,
As she might straight have gone to church and pray'd.
Well I believe, she kiss'd not as she should,
Nor used the sleight and cunning which she could.
Huge oaks, hard adamants might she have moved,
And with sweet words cause deaf rocks to have
lov'd.
Worthy she was to move both gods and men,
But neither was I man nor lived then.
Can deaf ear take delight when Phæmius 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 I lay,
Drooping more like 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 no more, Seeing thou would'st deceive me as before. Thou cozen'st me: by thee surpris'd am I, And bide sore loss 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 droop'd down, regarding not her hand, Why mock'st thou me she cried? or being ill, Who bade thee lie down here against thy will? Either thou art witch'd with blood of frogs new dead, Or jaded cam'st thou from some other's bed. With her loose gown on from me she cast her, In skipping out her naked feet much graced her. And lest her maid should know of this disgrace, To cover it, spilt water in the place.
Quod ab amica non recipiatur, dolèt.
WHAT man will now take liberal arts in hand,
Or think soft verse in any stead to stand?
Wit was sometimes more precious than gold;
Now poverty great barbarism we hold.
When our books did my mistress fair content,
I might not go whither my papers went.
She praised me, yet the gate shut fast upon her,
I here and there go, witty with dishonour.
See a rich chuff, whose wounds great wealth inferr'd,
For bloodshed knighted, before me preferr'd.
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