(Whose outward habit shewd his inward fate) Perswade with her to lend him some by-taste, Lest through his loues griefe she his loues life waste. Thrise happy daies (quoth she) and too soone gone, When as the deed was coupled with the tongue, And no deceitfull flattry nor guile Hung on the Louers teere-commixed stile; When now-scornd vertue was the golden end, By which all actions were performd and scand; And nothing glorious held, but what was free From vassall guilt and staind impietie. In those gold-times poore maidens might relie (Heauens sweetest treasure, dearer chastitie) Vpon mens words: but since that age is fled, And that the staining of a lawfull bed Is youths best grace, and all his oaths and passion Must still be taken on him as a fashion, To busie idle heads: oh, who can blame If maids grow chary, since slie men want shame! Say I should loue, and yet I know not why I should make any such supposes, I; Not that I am of such relentlesse temper, Whose heart nor vowes, nor sighs, nor teeres can enter; Nor am I only she, who thinks it good To sprinckle Loues rites with their Louers blood. Poore women neuer yet in loue offended, But that too quicke to loue they condescended: Their fault is pitie, which beleeues too soone Mens heart void tongue-delighted passion. Could women learne but that imperiousnesse, By which men vse to stint our happinesse, When they haue purchac'd vs for to be theirs By customary sighs and forced teeres, To giue vs bits of kindnesse lest we faint, But no abundance; so we euer want, And still are begging, which too well they know Endeares affection, and doth make it grow. Had we these sleights, how happy were we then, That we might glory ouer loue-sicke men! But arts we know not, nor haue any skill To faine a sower looke to a pleasing will; Nor couch our secretst loue in shew of hate: But if we like, must be compassionate. Say that thy teere-discoloured cheeke should moue Relenting pitie and that long liu'd loue. If ere thy faith should alter, and become Stranger to that which now it oft hath sworne, How were I wrapt in woe! No time to be Would euer end my datelesse miserie. Ay me (quoth _Philos_) what man can despise Such amourous looks, sweet tongues, & most sweet eies? Or who is glutted with the sight of heauen, Where still the more we looke, the more is seene? To the world of beauties Nature lent, And in each beautie worlds of loues content, Wherein delight and state moues circuler, Pleasure being captaine to thy Hemisphere. Say that the eie, wandring through white and red, Long hauing viewd Loues tower, thy wel built head, Passing those iuory walks where gentlest aire Fannes the sweet tresses of thy scorn-gold haire, Admiring oft those redder strawberries, Ript by the Sun-shine of thy loue-blest eyes, Should in this maze of pleasure, being led, Grow weary, with much time satisfied: