The Third and Fourth Booke of Ayres - The Fourth Booke

 Young and simple though I am,
 I have heard of Cupid's name;
 Guess I can what thing it is
 Men desire when they do kiss.
   Smoke can never burn they say,
   But the flames that follow may.

 I am not so fond, so fair,
 To be proud, or to despair;
 Yet my lips have oft observ'd,
 Men that kiss them press too hard,
   As glad lovers use to do,
   When their new met loves they woo.

 Fain 'tis but a foolish mind,
 Yet methinks a heat I find,
 And thirsty longing that doth bide
 Ever on the weaker side:
   O I feel my heart doth move,
   Venus grant it be not love.

 If it be, alas, what then?
 Were not women made for men?
 As good it were a thing were past,
 That must needs be done at last:
   Roses that are overblown
   Grow less sweet, and fall alone.

 Yet no churl or silken gull
 Shall my virgin blossom pull:
 Who shall not, I soon can tell,
 Who shall, would I could as well.
   Yet I'm sure what ere he be,
   Love he must, or flatter me.

Leaue prolonging thy distresse :
All delayes afflict the dying.
Many lost sighes long I spent, to her for mercy crying ;
    But now, vaine mourning, cease :
    Ile dye, and mine owne griefes release.

Thus departing from this light
To those shades that end all sorrow,
Yet a small time of complaint, a little breat Ile borrow,
    To tell my once delight
    I dye alone through her despight.

Thou ioy'st, fond boy, to be by many loued :
To haue thy beauty of most dames approued ;
For this dost thou thy natiue worth disguise
And play'st the Sycophant t' obserue their eyes ;
    Thy glass thou councel'st more t'adorne thy skin,
    That first should schoole thee to be fayre within.

'Tis childish to be caught with Pearle, or Amber,
And woman-like too much to cloy the chamber ;
Youths should the Field affect, heate their rough Steedes,
Their hardned nerues to fit for better deedes.
    Is 't not more ioy strong Holds to force with swords
    Than womens weaknesse take with lookes or words?

Men that doe noble things all purchase glory :
One man for one braue Act haue prou'd a story :
But if that one tenne thousand Dames o'ercame,
Who would record it, if not to his shame?
    'Tis farre more conquest with one to liue true
    Then euery houre to triumph Lord of new.

Vaile, loue, mine eyes : O hide from me
The plagues that charge the curious minde :
If beauty priuate will not be,
Suffice it yet that she proues kinde.
    Who can vsurp heau'ns light alone?
    Stars were not made to shine on one!

Griefes past recure fooles try to heale,
That greater harmes on lesse inflict,
The pure offend by too much zeale,
Affection should not be too strict.
    He that a true embrace will finde,
    To beauties faults must still be blinde.

There is a garden in her face,
  Where roses and white lilies grow;
A heav'nly paradise is that place,
  Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow.
There cherries grow, which none may buy
Till "Cherry ripe", themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose
  Of orient pearl a double row;
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
  They look like rosebuds filled with snow.
Yet them no peer nor prince can buy
Till "Cherry ripe", themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still;
  Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
  All that attempt with eye or hand
Those sacred cherries to come nigh
Till "Cherry ripe", themselves do cry.

Loue me or not, loue her I must or dye ;
Leaue me or not, follow her needs must I.
O that her grace would my wisht comforts giue.
How rich in her, how happy should I liue !

All my desire, all my delight should be
Her to enioy, her to vnite to mee :
Enuy should cease, her would I loue alone :
Who loues by lookes, is seldome true to one.

Could I enchant, and that it lawfull were,
Her would I charme softly that none should heare.
But loue enforc'd rarely yeelds firme content ;
So would I loue that neyther should repent.

Beauty is but a painted hell :
        Aye me, aye me,
Shee wounds them that admire it,
Shee kils them that desire it.
        Giue her pride but fuell,
        No fire is more cruell.

Pittie from eu'ry heart is fled :
        Aye me, aye me,
Since false desire could borrow
Teares of dissembled sorrow,
        Constant vowes turn truthlesse,
        Loue cruele, Beauty ruthlesse.

Sorrow can laugh, and Fury sing :
        Aye me, aye me,
My rauing griefes discouer
I liu'd too true a louer :
        The first step to madnesse
        Is the excesse of sadnesse.

I must complain, yet doe enioy my Loue ;
She is too faire, too rich in louely parts :
Thence is my grief, for Nature, while she stroue
With all her graces and diuinest Arts
    To form her too too beautifull of hue,
    Shee had no leasure left to make her true.

Should I agrieu'd, then wish shee were lesse fayre?
That were repugnant to mine owne desires :
Shee is admir'd, new louers still repayre ;
That kindles daily loues forgetfull fires.
    Rest, iealous thoughts, and thus resolue at last,
    Shee hath more beauty then becomes the chast.

Think'st thou to seduce me then with words that have no meaning?
Parats so can learne to prate our speech by pieces gleaning.
Nurses teach their children so, about the time of weaning.

Lerne to speake first, then to wooe, to wooing much pertayneth:
Hee that courts us wanting Arte, soon falters when he faineth:
Lookes a-squint on his discourse, and smiles when he complaineth.

Skilfull Anglers hide their hookes, fit bytes for every season;
But with crooked pins fish thou, as babes that doe wnmat reason,
Gogoins[gudgeons] onely can be csught with such poore triches of treason.

Ruth forgive me if I err'd from human hearts compassion,
When I laught sometimes too much to see thy foolish fashion:
But alas, who lesse could doe that found so good occasion?

Turne all thy thoughts to eyes,
Turn al thy haires to eares,
Change all thy friends to spies,
And all thy ioyes to feares :
    True Loue will yet be free,
    In spite of Iealousie.

Turne darknesse into day,
Coniectures into truth,
Beleeue what th' enuious say,
Let age interpret youth :
    True Loue will yet be free,
    In spite of Iealousie.

Wrest euery word and looke,
Racke eu'ry hidden thought,
Or fish with golden hooke ;
True loue cannot be caught.
    For that will still be free,
    In spite of Iealousie.

Beauty, since you so much desire
To know the place of Cupids fire,
About you somewhere doth it rest,
Yet neuer harbour'd in your brest,
Nor gout-like in your heele or toe ;
What foole would seeke Loues flame so low?
But a little higher, but a little higher,
There, there, o there lyes Cupids fire.

Thinke not, when Cupid most you scorne,
Men iudge that you of Ice were borne ;
For though you cast loue at your heele,
His fury yet sometime you feele :
And where-abouts if you would know,
I tell you still not in your toe :
But a little higher, but a little higher,
There, there, o there lyes Cupids fire.

Faine would I wed a faire yong man that day and night could please mee,
When my mind or body grieued that had the powre to ease mee.
Maids are full of longing thoughts that breed a bloudlesse sicknesse,
And that, oft I heare men say, is onely cur'd by quicknesse.
Oft I haue beene woo'd and prai'd, but neuer could be moued ;
Many for a day or so I haue most dearely loued,
But this foolish mind of mine straight loathes the thing resolued ;
If to loue be sinne in mee that sinne is soon absolued.
Sure I thinke I shall at last flye to some holy Order ;
When I once am setled there then can I flye no farther.
Yet I would not dye a maid, because I had a mother :
As I was by one brought forth I would bring forth another.