Lies he in yonder slipper dead?
Or, may be, in the tea-pot drown'd?
No, traitor, angry Love replies,
He's hid somewhere about your breast;
A place nor God nor man denies,
For Venus' Dove the proper nest.
Search, then, she said; put in your hand, And Cynthia, dear protectress, guard me, As guilty I or free may stand,
Do thou or punish or reward me.
But, ah! what maid to Love can trust!
He scorns and breaks all legal pow'r;
Into her breast his hand he thrust,
And in a moment forc'd it lower.
O, whither do those fingers rove,
Cries Chloe, treacherous urchin, whither?
O Venus! I shall find thy Dove,
Says he, for sure I touch his feather.
ERLE ROBERT's MICE.
IN CHAUCER'S STYLE.
WAY Mice, full blythe and amicable, Baten beside Erle Robert's table,
Lies there ne trap their necks to catch,
Ne old black cat their steps to watch,
Their fill they eat of fowl and fish;
Feast-lyche as heart of mouse moje wish.
As guests sat jovial at the board,
Forth leap'd our Mice; eftsoons the Lord
Of Boling, whilom John the Saint,
Who maketh oft propos full queint,
Laugh'd, jocund, and aloud he cry'd,
To Matthew, seated on t'other side;
To thee, lean Bard, it doth partain
To understand these creatures tweine:
Come frame us now some clean device,
Or playsant rhyme on yonder Mice;
They seem, God shield me, Matt and Quarles.
Bad as Sir Topas or 'Squire Charles,
(Matthew did for the nonce reply)
At emblem or device am I ;
But could I chaunt or rhyme, pardie,
Clear as Dan Chaucer or as thee,
Ne verse from me (so God me shrive)
On mouse or other beast alive.
Certes I have this many days
Sent myne poetic herd to graze.
Ne armed knight ydrad in war
With lyon fierce will I compare;
Ne judge unjust with furred fox,
Harming in secret guise the flecks;
Ne priest unworth of Goddess coat,
To swine ydrunk, or filthy stoat;
Elke simile farewell for aye,
From elephant, I trow, to flea.
Reply'd the friendlike peer, I weene
Matthew is angred on the spleen.
Ne so, quoth Matt, ne shall be e'er,
With wit that falleth all so fair:
Eftsoons, well weet ye, my intent
Boweth to your commandement.
If by these creatures ye have seen,
Pourtrayed Charles and Matthew been;
Behoveth neet to wreck my brain,
The rest in order to explain.
That cupboard, where the Mice disport,
I liken to St. Stephen's court;
Therein is space enough, I trow,
For elke comrade to come and goe;
And therein eke may both be fed
With shiver of the wheaten bread :
And when, as these mine eyne survey,
They cease to ship, and squeak, and play;
Return they may to diff'rent cells,
Auditing one, whilst t' other tells.
Dear Robert, quoth the Saint, whose mind In bounteous deed no mean can bind, Now, as I hope to grow devout,
I deem this matter well made out.
Laugh I, whilst thus I serious pray?
Let that be wrought which Matt doth say;
Yea, quoth the Erle, but not to-day.
FULL oft doth Matt with Topaz dine,
Eateth bak'd meats, drinketh Greek wine;
But Topaz his own werke rehearseth,
And Matt mote praise what Topaz verseth.
Now sure as priest did e'er shrive sinner,
Full hardly earneth Matt his dinner.
FAIR Susan did her wif-hede well menteine,
Algates assaulted sore by letchours tweine;
Now, and I read aright that auncient song,
Olde were the paramours, the dame full yong.
Had thille same tale in other guise been tolde; Had they been yong (pardie) and she been olde, That, by St. Kit, had wrought much sorer tryal, Full merveillous, I wote, were silk denyal.
WHILST I in prison or in court look down,
Nor beg thy favour nor deserve thy frown,
In vain malicious Fortune hast thou try'd,
By taking from my state, to quell my pride:
Insulting Girl, thy present rage abate,
And would'st thou have me humbled, make me great
WHILST I am Scorch'd with hot desire,
In vain cold friendship you return;
Your drops of pity on my fire,
Alas! but make it fiercer burn.
Ah! would you have the flame supprest,
That kills the heart it heats too fast,
Take half my passion to your breast,
The rest in mine shall ever last.
Sɛɛ, whilst thou weep'st, fair Chloe, see
The world in sympathy with thee:
The cheerful birds no longer sing,
Each droops his head and hangs his wing ;
The clouds have bent their bosom lower,
And shed their sorrows in a shower;
The brooks beyond their limits flow,
And louder murmurs speak their woe;
The nymphs and swains adopt thy cares;
They heave thy sighs and weep thy tears.
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