Course the fearful hare,
Venison do not spare.
If thou wilt yield Venus grace,
Shun the boar, I pray thee,
Else I still will stay thee.'
Herein, he vowed to please her mind;
Then her arms enlarged,
Loth she him discharged:
Forth he went as swift as wind.
Thetis Phoebus' steeds
In the west retained,
Hunting sport was past; Love her love did seek. Sight of him too soon, Gentle queen, she gained;
On the ground he lay,
Blood had left his cheek.
For an orped swine
Smit him in the groin,
Deadly wound his death did bring;
Which, when Venus found,
She fell in a swound,
And, awaked, her hands did wring.
Nymphs and satyrs skipping,
Came together tripping,
Echo every cry expressed;
Venus by her power
Turned him to a flower,
Which she weareth in her crest.
To Cupid
Maidens, why spare ye?
Or whether not dare ye
Correct the blind shooter?
Because wanton Venus,
So oft that doth pain us,
Is her son's tutor!
Now in the Spring
He proveth his wing,
The field is his bower;
And as the small bee,
About flyeth he
From flower to flower.
And wantonly roves
Abroad in the groves,
And in the air hovers;
Which when it him deweth,
His feathers he meweth
In sighs of true lovers.
And since doomed by Fate (That well knew his hate)
That he should be blind,
For very despite,
Our eyes be his white,
So wayward his kind.
If his shafts losing
(Ill his mark choosing)
Or his bow broken,
The moan Venus maketh,
And care that she taketh,
Cannot be spoken.
To Vulcan commending
Her love, and straight sending
Her doves and her sparrows,
With kisses, unto him,
And all but to woo him
To make her son arrows.
Telling what he hath done,
Saith she, "Right mine own son!"
In her arms him she closes,
Sweets on him fans,
Laid in down of her swans,
His sheets, leaves of roses.
And feeds him with kisses;
Which oft when he misses
He ever is froward:
The mother's o'erjoying
Makes by much coying
The child so untoward.
Yet in a fine net,
That a spider set,
The maidens had caught him; Had she not been near him,
And chanced to hear him,
More good they had taught him.
Cupid and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses, Cupid paid:
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on 's cheek (but none knows how);
With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin:
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this for thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?
The Bag of the Bee
About the sweet bag of a bee
Two cupids fell at odds,
And whose the pretty prize should be
They vowed to ask the gods.
Which Venus hearing, thither came,
And for their boldness stripped them,
And, taking thence from each his flame,
With rods of myrtle whipped them.
Which done, to still their wanton cries,
When quiet grown she'd seen them,
She kissed, and wiped their dove-like eyes,
And gave the bag between them.
The Shower of Blossoms
Love in a shower of blossoms came
Down, and half drowned me with the same:
The blooms that fell were white and red;
But with such sweets commingled,
As whether, this, I cannot tell
My sight was pleased more, or my smell:
But true it was, as I rolled there,
Without a thought of hurt or fear,
Love turned himself into a bee,
And with his javelin wounded me:
From which mishap thus use I make,
Where most sweets are, there lies a snake;
Kisses and favours are sweet things;
But those have thorns and these have stings.
Charon and Philomel;
Dialogue Sung
Philomel. Charon! O gentle Charon! let me WOO thee
By tears and pity now to come unto me. Charon. What voice so sweet and charming do I
I prithee first draw near. Charon. A sound I hear, but nothing yet can see;
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