DID not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye, A woman I forswore; but I will prove, Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee: If broken, then it is no fault of mine. If by me broke, what fool is not so wise II. Sweet Cytherea, sitting by a brook With young Adonis, lovely, fresh, and green, Did court the lad with many a lovely look, Such looks as none could look but beauty's queen. She told him stories to delight his ear; She show'd him favours to allure his eye; To win his heart, she touch'd him here and there: But whether unripe years did want conceit, The tender nibbler would not touch the bait, But smile and jest at every gentle offer: Then fell she on her back, fair queen, and toward; He rose and ran away; ah, fool too froward! III. If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love? O never faith could hold, not to beauty vow'd: Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll constant prove; Those thoughts, to me like oaks, to thee like osiers bow'd. Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes, Where all those pleasures live that art can comprehend. If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice; Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend ; All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder; Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire : Thine eye Jove's lightning seems, thy voice his dreadful thunder, Which (not to anger bent) is music and sweet fire. Celestial as thou art, O do not love that wrong, To sing the heavens' praise with such an earthly tongue. IV. Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn, A longing tarriance for Adonis made, A brook where Adon used to cool his spleen. He, spying her, bounc'd in, whereas he stood; V. Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle; A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her, Her lips to mine how often hath she join'd, Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing! How many tales to please me hath she coin'd, Dreading my love, the loss thereof still fearing! Yet in the midst of all her pure protestings, Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were jestings. She burn'd with love, as straw with fire flameth, Bad in the best, though excellent in neither. VI. If music and sweet poetry agree, As they must needs, the sister and the brother, One god is god of both, as poets feign; One knight loves both, and both in thee remain. VII. Fair was the morn, when the fair queen of love, Paler for sorrow than her milk-white dove, See in my thigh, quoth she, here was the sore: |