Page:Shakespeare Collection of Poems.djvu/50

Like shrill-tongu'd Tapsters answering every call,
Soothing the humor of fantastick wits?
She says, 'tis so: they answer all, 'tis so:
And would say after her, if she said no.

Lo here the gentle Lark, weary of rest,
From his moist cabinet mounts up on high,
And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast
The Sun ariseth in his Majesty;
Who doth the world so gloriously behold,
That Cedar tops and hills seem burnisht gold.

Venus salutes him with this fair good morrow;
O thou clear God, and Patron of all light,
From whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow
The beauties influence that makes him bright,
There lives a son, that suckt an earthly mother,
May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other.

This said, she hasteth to a Mirtle grove,
Musing the morning is so much ore-worn,
And yet she hears no tydings of her love,
She hearkens for his hounds, and for his horn:
Anon she hears them chaunt it lustily,
And all in haste she coasteth to the cry.

And as she runs, the bushes in the way,
Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face,
Some twine about her thigh to make her stay,
She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace,

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