DAMETAS

Both one and other I will well perform. I pray the Gods ( Montane ) thy dream do sort Unto as good and end as thou dost hope. I know remembrance of thy son thou lost, Inspires thee with a happy prophecy. Like frost to grass, Like drought to gentle flowers, Like lightning unto corn, Like worms to seeds, Like nets to deer, Like lime to silly birds, So to mankind is love a cruel foe. He that love likened unto fire, knew well His pe fidous and wicked kind. For look But on this fire, how fine a thing it is. But touch it, and t'is then a cruel thing. The world hath not a monster more to dread. It ravens worse then beasts, and strikes more deep Then edged steel, and Like the wind it slies: And where it plants his imperious feet, Each force does yield, all power gives place. Even so this love, if we it but behold, In two fair eyes, and in a golden Tress, O how it pleases! o how then it seems To breathe out joy, and promise largely peace! But if you it approach, and tempt it once, So that it creep and gather force in you, Hircane no Tigers, Liby no Lyons hath, Nor poisonous worms, with teeth or stings so fierce, That can surpass, or equal loves disease, More dreadful then is hell, then death it self, Sweet pities foe, the minister of rage: And to conclude, love void of any love. Why speak I thus of love? why blame him thus? Is he the cause that the whole world in love, Or rather love-dissembling, sinneth so? O woman's treachery! that is the cause That hath begotten love this infamy. How ever love be in his nature good, With them his goodness suddenly he leeseth. They never suffer him to touch their hearts, But in their faces only built his bower. Their care, their pomp, and all their whole delight. Is in the bark of a bepainted face. T'is not in them now faith with faith to grace, And to contend in love with him that loves, Into two breasts dividing but one will: Now all their labour is, with burnished gold To die their hair, and tie it up in curls, Therein to snare unwary lovers in. Oh what a stinking thing it is, to see them take A Pencil up, and paint their bloodless cheeks: Hiding the faults of nature and of time, Making the pale to blush, the wrinkled plain, The black seem white, faults mending with far worse. Then with a pair of pincers do they pull Their eyebrows till they smart again. But this is nothing, though it be too much, For all their customs are alike to these. What is it that they use, which is not counterfeit? Open they their mouths? they lie: move they their eyes? They counterfeit their looks: If so they sighs, Their sighs dissembled are. In sum, each act, Each look, each gesture, is a very lie. Nor is this yet the worst. T'is their delight, Them to deceive even most, that trust them most; And love them least, that are most worthy love. True faith to hate, worse then death it self: These be the tricks that make love so perverse. Then is the fault faithless Corisca thine? Or rather mine, that have believed thee so? How many troubles have I for thy sake sustained? I now repent, nay more I am ashamed. Lovers believe me, women once adored, Are worse then the griefly powers of hell. Strait by their valour vaunt they that they are The same you by your folly fashion them. Let go these base sighs, prayers and plaints, Fit weapons for women and children only. Once did I think that prayers, plaints, and sighs, Might in a woman's heart have stirred up The flames of love, but rush I was deceived. Then if thou wouldst thy mistress conquer, leave These silly toys, and close thou up all love. Do that which love and nature teaches thee, For modesty is but the outward virtue of A woman's face. Wherefore to handle her with more destie, Is a mere fault, she though she use it, loves it not. A tender-harted Lover shalt thou not Corisca ever find me more, but Like a man I will assail and pierce thee through and through. Twice have I taken thee, and twice again Thou hast escaped (I know not how) my hands: But if thou comest the third time in my reach, I'll fetter thee for running then away. Hart wont to pass these woods, I Like a hound Will hunt thee out. O what a sweet revenge I mean to take: I mean to make thee prove What t'is unjustly to betray thy Love. Me seems so, But yet I know not where. Why ask you this? I grant I told you so. Will you I should remember what I did So long ago? old men forgetful are. Tush he does rather dote. O that Thou Wertenberg as far beneath the ground. What gift is't thou speakest of? And what of that? O force of Destiny. O were I dead as sure as it is true. O master seek no more, let this suffice. Because the Oracle foretold me that the child Should be in danger on his father's hands His death to have if he returned home. Behold we are ready here.