On his bow-back he hath a battle set

Of bristly pikes, that ever threat his toes;

His eyes like glow-worms shine when he doth

fret:

His snout digs sepulchres where'er he goes:

Being moved, he strikes whate'er is in his way; And whom he strikes, his cruel tushes slay.

His brawny sides, with hairy bristles arm'd,

Are better proof than thy spear's point can enter; His short thick neck cannot be easily harm'd;

Being ireful, on the lion he will venture :

The thorny brambles and embracing bushes,

As fearful of him, part; through whom he rushes.

Alas, he naught esteems that face of thine,

To which Love's eyes pay tributary gazes;

Nor thy soft hands, sweet lips, and crystal eyne,
Whose full perfection all the world amazes :

But having thee at vantage, (wondrous dread!)
Would root these beauties as he roots the meal.

'O, let him keep his loathsome cabin still! Beauty hath naught to do with such foul fiends: Come not within his danger by thy will:

They that thrive well, take counsel of their friends. When thou didst name the boar. not to dis

semble,

I fear'd thy fortune, and my joints did tremble.

Didst thou not mark my face? Was it not white? Saw'st thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye? Grew I not faint? And fell I not downright? Within my bosom, whereon thou dost lie,

My boding heart pants, beats, and takes no rest ;

But, like an earthquake, shakes thee on my breast:

For where Love reigns, disturbing Jealousy
Doth call himself Affection's, sentinel;

Gives false alarms, suggesteth mutiny,
And in a peaceful hour doth cry, ‘Kill, kill; '
Distempering gentle love in his desire,

As air and water do abate the fire.

This sour informer, this bate-breeding1 spy,

This canker that eats up love's tender spring,

This carry-tale, dissensious Jealousy,

That sometime true news, sometime false doth

bring,

Knocks at my heart, and whispers in mine ear,
That, if I love thee, I thy death should fear:

And more than so, presenteth to mine eye
The picture of an angry, chafing boar,
Under whose sharp fangs on his back doth lie
An image like thyself, all stain'd with gore;

1 Bate is an old word, signifying strife, contention.

Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed,

Doth make them droop with grief, and hang the Lead.

What should I do, seeing thee so indeed.

That tremble at the imagination?

The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed. And fear doth teach it divination :

I prophesy thy death, my living sorrow,

If thou encounter with the boar to-morrow.

'But if thou needs wilt hunt, be ruled by me; Uncouple at the timorous, flying hare;

Or at the fox, which lives by subtilty;

Or at the roe, which no encounter dare:

Pursue these fearful creatures o'er the downs, And on thy well-breathed horse keep with thy hounds:

And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare, Mark the poor wretch, to overshut1 his troubles How he outruns the wind, and with what care He cranks and crosses, with a thousand doubles The many musits 3 through the which he goes, Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.

• Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep, To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell;

And sometime where earth-delving conies keep,
To stop the loud pursuers in their yell;

And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer:
Danger deviseth shifts; wit waits on fear:

For there his smell with others being mingled, The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt, Ceasing their clamorous cry till they have singled, With much ado, the cold fault cleanly out:

Then do they spend their mouths; Echo replies, As if another chase were in the skies.

By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill,

Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,
To hearken if his foes pursue him still;
Anon their loud alarums he doth hear;

And now his grief may be compared well
To one sore-sick, that hears the passing-bell.

Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch
Turn, and return, indenting with the way;
Each envious brier his weary legs doth scratch;
Each shadow makes him stop, each

stay:

For misery is trodden on by many;
And, being low, never relieved by any.

Lie quietly, and hear a little more;

murmur

Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise:
To make thee hate the hunting of the boar,
Unlike myself thou hear'st me moralise,

Applying this to that, and so to so:

For love can comment upon every woe.

• Where did I leave?' No matter where,' quoth he:

Leave me, and then the story aptly ends:

The night is spent.'-' Why, what of that?' quoth、

she:

'I am,' quoth he, expected of my friends;

And now 'tis dark, and going I shall fall.'

In night,' quoth she, desire sees best of all.

• But if thou fall, O, then imagine this ;—
The earth, in love with thee, thy footing trips,
And all is but to rob thee of a kiss.

Rich 'preys make true 1 men thieves; so do thy lips
Make modest Dian cloudy and forlorn,

Lest she should steal a kiss, and die forsworn.

Now, of this dark night I perceive the reason:

Cynthia for shame obscures her silver shine,
Till forging Nature be condemn'd of treason,
For stealing moulds from heaven that were divine,
Wherein she framed thee, in high heaven's de-
spite,

To shame the sun by day, and her by night:

And therefore hath she bribed the Destinies,

To cross the curious workmanship of nature,

¡ Honest.