Thus much this lustfull Lady writ in vaine, And seald it closely with a precious stone, A precious stone clos'd vp a filthy staine, Her trusty seruant forth she cals anone, And blushing bad him with a merry cheare, He should this letter to her father beare. This scarcely said, old _Cynaras_ did come, And then she cast her letter quite aside. Daughter (said he) you see the daily throng Of suters that do seeke thee for their bride: Here be their names _my wench_, th[=e] come & show On which of them thou wilt thy selfe bestow. Now for a space she silent did remaine, And onely gazed wishly in his face: She could her teares no longer then restraine, But they ran trickling down her cheeks apace Her father kisses her, and bids her peace, And thought it tender-hearted shamefastnes. He dry'd her cheekes, and said, my wench be stil, Thy yeares of right, a husband now doth claime Thou shalt not liue a maid by my good will, Nor longer shalt a wanton bed refraine, Then what, or who wilt haue? come tell me now. At length she did reply; one like to you. He did allow the choyce, and praisd the same, And kist and clipt her for her louing speech, Not deeming that it tended to their shame, It pleasd her well, & wisht that he would seech A further suit; and then made this request, Let me live still with you, let wooers rest. Your company I most of all affect, Continue but your loue, it shall suffice, These wrangling husbands why should I respect? Her father thus againe to her replies, Thy godlinesse (at which she blushed red) I like, but thou must tast a Bride-groomes bed. Thou dost not know the pleasure it affords, Nor wanton motions that therein abound. It not consisteth all of pleasant words, More gamesome tricks are there stil to be fo[=u]d A minde so chaste as thine cannot conceiue What pleasing sports one shall therby receiue. It is no dreame, nor passion of the minde, But a substantiall pleasure there doth dwell, The practike part of dreames therein we finde, Which who so doth omit, leades Apes in hell. Why dost thou blush? I know your case, belieue, Maids must say nay, yet take when men do giue. And now the sable horses of the night, Haue drawne a mantle ore the siluer sky, And all the stars doe shew their borrowed light, Each breathing thing oprest with sleep doth ly Saue _Philomell_, that sings of _Terreus_ rape, And _Myrha_ plotting some incestious scape. No rest at all she tooke within her bed, The flames of _Cupid_ burnt so in her brest, And many a fansie comes into her head, Which ouer-much her troubled soule opprest, She _doubts_, she _hopes_ th[=e] _feare_ doth make repaire, Sh'l now att[=e]pt, then _shame_ doth bring despaire.