NIOBE

Or Salamints, which in the morning are white, at noon, and in the Evening purple, for in my affec tions shall there be no staidness but in vnstaiedues: bue what is yours of, Nisa ? Come, let us make and end, lest Ceres come and find us slack in performing that which we owe: But soft, some have been here this Morning before us. Give them leave to love, since we have liberty to choose, for as great sport do I take in coursing their tame hearts, as they do pains in hunting their wild Hearts. But Foresters think all Birds to be Buntings. What's the next Fructus abest fancies cum bona teste care , Celia, the Forester gives you good counsel, take your pen worth while the market serves. Inconstancy is a vice, which I will not swap for all the virtues; though I throw one off with my whole hand, I can pull him again with my little finger; let us en courage them and write something; if they censure in fa uourably, we know them fools; if angrily, we will say they are from ard. You care for nothing but a Glass, that is a flat terer. No men are; but this is mine: Victoriatecum stabit. He is worthy oh e, that is patient. Erisicthon, thy stern looks joined with thy stout speeches; thy words as vnkembd as thy locks, were able to affright men of bold courage, and to make us silly girls frantic, that are full of fear; but know thou, Erisicthon, that were thy hands so unstated as thy tongue, and th'one as ready to execute mischief, as the other to threa ten it; it should neither move our hearts to ask pity, or remove our bodies from this place; we are the hand maids of divine Ceres, to fair Ceres is this holy tree dedi cated, to Ceres, by whose favour thy self livest, that are worthy to perish. Our selves, I fear, must also minister matter to his fury. Yes Madam: To let men see, they that contend with the gods, do but confound themselves. Not I, Madam, yet must I confess, that often times I have had sweet thoughts, sometime hard con ceites, betwixt both a kind of yielding; I know not what. But certainly I think it is not love: sighs I can, and ease in melancholy: smile I do and take pleasure in ima gination, I feel in my self a pleasing pain, a chill heat, a delicate bitterness, how to term it I know not; with out doubt it may be love, sure I am it is not hate. Find you fault that I love? Would you have me Like none? Who shall make choice but my self? For another to put thoughts into my head, were to pull the brains out of my head; take not measure of my affections, but weigh your own: the Oak finds no fault with the dew, because it also falls on the bramble. Believe me, Sil str , the only way to be mad, is to be constant. Poets make their wreathes of Laurel, Ladies of sundry flowers. But Bees in swarms, and bring forth wax and honey. Why had Argus and hundred eyes, and might have seen with one? And I love many, because being deceived by the inconstancy of diverse, I might yet have one. But stars inns . But of sundry colours. But a thousand thoughts. The strings of my heart are tuned in a contra rye key to your Lute, and make as sweet harmony in discords, as yours in concord. There is no base string in a woman's heart. There was never mean in woman's heart. Yea, the Triple double and Triple, and so are all my heart strings. Farewell. It will make you sighs the more, and live with the Salamich. Are yours death? I will sing to content thee. Nor I. Nor I Cupid : let me hang always in the air, which I found more constant then men's words: happy Niobe, that touched not the ground where they go, but always holding thy beak in the air, didst never turn back to behold the earth. In the heavens I saw and order lie course, in the earth nothing but disorderly love, and preuishnesse: turn me again, Cupid, for yield I will not. Shall I yield to him that caused me have wings, that I might fly farther from him. I yielded first in mind, though it be my course last to speak: but if Silvestris find me not ever at home, let him curse himself that gave me wings to fly abroad, whose feathers if his jealousy shall break, my policy shall nip. And this a rule of Venus, that knew light es. Thou monster, canst thou hear this without grief? Thou art none of the gods.