CLEMATIS

O impotent desires, allay the sad consort Of a sublime Fortune, whose most ambitious flames Disdain to burn in simple Cottages, Loathing a hard unpolished bed; But Coveting to shine beneath a Canopy Of rich Sydonian purple; all embroidered With purest gold, and oriental Pearls; In tesselated pavements, and guilded roofs, Supported by proud artificial Columns, Of polished Ivory and Marble; does love delight There; does he, Like a mighty Tyrant, rage, Subverting the whole edifice of reason With his impetuous conflagration: That this is true, the gentle Shepherdess Fair Eglantine does evidently show: For she, a sister to the great Cynosbatus, Was Courted lately by the Shepherd Rhodon: Whose suit she entertained with endue respect, Requiting love with love: but Fate (it seems) Not condescending that great Hymen should Accomplish their desires; forbade the Banes, And Rhodon hath relinquished his suit; And is returned to Hybla sweet; whose flowery vales Began to droop, and wither in his absence. But Eglantine remains disconsolate; Like to a Turtle that hath lost her mate. See where she comes, expressing in her face A perfect Map of melancholy: I will retire, because I well desery, She's out of love with all society. What time shall end thy sorrows, sweetest Eglantine? Thou gentle goddess of the woods & mountains, That in the woods and mountains art adored, The Maiden patroness of chaste desires, Who art for chastity renowned most, Tresgrand Diana, who hast power to cure The rankling wounds of Cupid's golden arrows; Thy precious balsome deign thou to apply, Unto the heart of woeful Eglantine; Then we thy gracious favour will requite With a young Kid, than new fallen snow more white. Nor in her weeds alone is she so nice, But rich perfumes she buys at any price. Storax and Spiknard she burns in her Chamber, And daubs her self with Civit, Musk and Amber. With limbecks, viols, pots, her Closet's filled, Full of strange liquours by rare art distilled: She hath Vermilion and Antimony, Ceruse and sublimated Mercury. Waters she hath to make her face to shine; Confections eke to clarify her skin; Lipsalues, and clothes of a pure scarlet die She hath, which to her cheeks she does apply: Ointments wherewith she pargets over her face, And lustrifies her beauty's dying grace. She waters for the Morphewes does compose, And many other things, as strange as those; Some made of Daffodils, some of lees, Of scarwolfe some, and some of rinds of trees, With Centory, Sour Grapes, and Tarragon, She makes many a strange lotion: Her skin she can both supple and refine, With juice of Lemons and with Turpintine: The marrow of the Hernshaw and the Dear, She takes likewise to make her skin look clear: Sweet waters she distils, which she composes Of flowers of Oranges, Woodbine or Roses: The virtue of Iesmine and three-leaved grass, She does imprison in a brittle glass, With Civet, Musk, and odours far more rare, These liquours sweet incorporated are: Lees she can make which turn a hair that's old Or coloured ill, into a hue of gold. Of horses, bears, cats, camels, conies, snakes, Whale's, Herons, bittours, strange oils she makes, With which dame nature's errors she corrects, Using arts help to supply all defects. She in the milk of Asses baths her skin, As did the beautiful Poppea, when She tempted Nero to forsake the bed Of great Octavia, and her self to wed. Out you prattling Parachito, Come you hither to abuse me. Take this for your pains. Skippiake tell what you can, I weight not this, I'll make you know that you have done amiss.