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 burnish'd gold. Venus salutes him with this fair good-morrow :- The beauteous influence that makes him bright: This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove, And as she runs, the bushes in the way, Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ache, 1 Advanceth. By this, she hears the hounds are at a bay, Whereat she starts, like one that spies an adder The fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder. Even so the timorous yelping of the hounds Appals her senses, and her spright confounds: For now she knows it is no gentle chase, They all strain courtesy who shall cope him first. This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear, Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy; Bids them leave quaking, bids them fear no more ; And with that word she spied the hunted boar; 1 Mischievous, malicious. Whose frothy mouth, bepainted all with red, This way she runs, and now she will no further; A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways; Full of respect, yet naught at all respecting; Here kennel'd in a brake she finds a hound, To whom she speaks; and he replies with howling. When he hath ceased his ill-resounding noise, Clapping their proud tails to the ground below; 1 Confounded. i. e. circumspection. Look, how the world's poor people are amazed Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gazed, So she at these sad signs draws up her breath, · Hard-favor'd tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean, : Hateful divorce of love,' (thus chides she Death) Grim-grinning ghost, earth's worm, what dost thou mean, To stifle beauty, and to steal his breath; ་ Who, when he lived, his breath and beauty set Gloss on the rose, smell to the violet? If he be dead;-O, no; it cannot be, Seeing his beauty, thou shouldst strike at it :- Thy mark is feeble age; but thy false dart Mistakes that aim, and cleaves an infant's heart. Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke; And, hearing him, thy power had lost his power. The Destinies will curse thee for this stroke: They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck'st a flower: Love's golden arrow at him should have fled; And not death's ebon dart, to strike him dead. 'Dost thou drink tears, that thou provokest such weeping? What may a heavy groan advantage thee? Those eyes that taught all other eyes to see? Here overcome, as one full of despair, But through the floodgates breaks the silver rain, O, how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow! sorrow; Sorrow, that friendly sighs sought still to dry; Variable passions throng her constant woe, That every present sorrow seemeth chief, |