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The Passionate Pilgrime.
137
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 beauties queen:
She told him stories to delight his ears;
She shew'd him favours, to allure his eye;
To win his heart, she toucht him here and there,
Touches so soft still conquer chastity.
But whether unripe years did want conceit,
Or he refus'd to take her figured proffer,
The tender nibler would not touch the bait,
But smile and jeast at every gentle offer:
Then fell she on her backe, fair queen, and toward
He rose and ran away, ah foole too froward.
With young Adonis, lovely, fresh and green,
Did court the Lad with many a lovely look,
Such looks as none could look but beauties queen:
She told him stories to delight his ears;
She shew'd him favours, to allure his eye;
To win his heart, she toucht him here and there,
Touches so soft still conquer chastity.
But whether unripe years did want conceit,
Or he refus'd to take her figured proffer,
The tender nibler would not touch the bait,
But smile and jeast at every gentle offer:
Then fell she on her backe, fair queen, and toward
He rose and ran away, ah foole too froward.
If Love make me forsworn, how shall I swere to love?
O never faith could hold, if not to beauty vowed:
Tho to my self forsworn, to thee Ile constant prove,
Those thoghts to me like Okes, to thee like Osiers bowed.
Studdy his byas leaves, & 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 toung that well can thee commend,
All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder,
Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admyre:
Thine eye Jove's lightning seems, thy voice his dreadful thunder,
Which (not to anger bent) is musick and sweet fire.
O never faith could hold, if not to beauty vowed:
Tho to my self forsworn, to thee Ile constant prove,
Those thoghts to me like Okes, to thee like Osiers bowed.
Studdy his byas leaves, & 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 toung that well can thee commend,
All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder,
Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admyre:
Thine eye Jove's lightning seems, thy voice his dreadful thunder,
Which (not to anger bent) is musick and sweet fire.
Ce-
