LITMIR.BIZ

      Here comes another: better be my speed,

      Thou god of Blood: but certain, if I read

      Not false, this is that modest Shepherd, he

      That only dare salute, but ne'r could be

      Brought to kiss any, hold discourse, or sing,

      Whisper, or boldly ask that wished thing

      We all are born for; one that makes loving Faces,

      And could be well content to covet Graces,

      Were they not got by boldness; in this thing

      My hopes are frozen; and but Fate doth bring

      Him hither, I would sooner chuse

      A Man made out of Snow, and freer use

      An Eunuch to my ends: but since he's here,

      Thus I attempt him. Thou of men most dear,

      Welcome to her, that only for thy sake,

      Hath been content to live: here boldly take

      My hand in pledg, this hand, that never yet

      Was given away to any: and but sit

      Down on this rushy Bank, whilst I go pull

      Fresh Blossoms from the Boughs, or quickly cull

      The choicest delicates from yonder Mead,

      To make thee Chains, or Chaplets, or to spread

      Under our fainting Bodies, when delight

      Shall lock up all our senses. How the sight

      Of those smooth rising Cheeks renew the story

      Of young Adonis, when in Pride and Glory

      He lay infolded 'twixt the beating arms

      Of willing Venus: methinks stronger Charms

      Dwell in those speaking eyes, and on that brow

      More sweetness than the Painters can allow

      To their best pieces: not Narcissus, he

      That wept himself away in memorie

      Of his own Beauty, nor Silvanus Boy,

      Nor the twice ravish'd Maid, for whom old Troy

      Fell by the hand of Pirrhus, may to thee

      Be otherwise compar'd, than some dead Tree

      To a young fruitful Olive.

      Daph. I can love, But I am loth to say so, lest I prove

      Too soon unhappy.

      Clo. Happy thou would'st say,

      My dearest Daphnis, blush not, if the day

      To thee and thy soft heats be enemie,

      Then take the coming Night, fair youth 'tis free

      To all the World, Shepherd, I'll meet thee then

      When darkness hath shut up the eyes of men,

      In yonder Grove: speak, shall our Meeting hold?

      Indeed you are too bashful, be more bold,

      And tell me I.

      Daph. I'm content to say so,

      And would be glad to meet, might I but pray so

      Much from your Fairness, that you would be true.

      Clo. Shepherd, thou hast thy Wish.

      Daph. Fresh Maid, adieu:

      Yet one word more, since you have drawn me on

      To come this Night, fear not to meet alone

      That man that will not offer to be ill,

      Though your bright self would ask it, for his fill

      Of this Worlds goodness: do not fear him then,

      But keep your 'pointed time; let other men

      Set up their Bloods to sale, mine shall be ever

      Fair as the Soul it carries, and unchast never. [Exit.

      Clo. Yet am I poorer than I was before.

      Is it not strange, among so many a score

      Of lusty Bloods, I should pick out these things

      Whose Veins like a dull River far from Springs,

      Is still the same, slow, heavy, and unfit

      For stream or motion, though the strong winds hit

      With their continual power upon his sides?

      O happy be your names that have been brides,

      And tasted those rare sweets for which I pine:

      And far more heavy be thy grief and time,

      Thou lazie swain, that maist relieve my needs,

      Than his, upon whose liver alwayes feeds

      A hungry vultur.

      Ale. Can such beauty be

      Safe in his own guard, and not draw the eye

      Of him that passeth on, to greedy gaze,

      Or covetous desire, whilst in a maze

      The better part contemplates, giving rein

      And wished freedom to the labouring vein?

      Fairest and whitest, may I crave to know

      The cause of your retirement, why ye goe

      Thus all alone? methinks the downs are sweeter,

      And the young company of swains far meeter,

      Than those forsaken and untroden places.

      Give not your self to loneness, and those graces

      Hid from the eyes of men, that were intended

      To live amongst us swains.

      Cloe. Thou art befriended,

      Shepherd, in all my life I have not seen

      A man in whom greater contents have been

      Than thou thy self art: I could tell thee more,

      Were there but any hope left to restore

      My freedom lost. O lend me all thy red,

      Thou shamefast morning, when from Tithons bed

      Thou risest ever maiden.

      Alex. If for me,

      Thou sweetest of all sweets, these flashes be,

      Speak and be satisfied. O guide her tongue,

      My better angel; force my name among

      Her modest thoughts, that the first word may be—

      Cloe.

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