It is fitt it should with you remaine, For you know better how to raine. Yet if it raine still as before, St Swythen praies that you would guesse, That Iris doth more robes possesse, And that you should blame him no more. At her Maiesties departure from Harefield, PLACE, attyred in black mouringe aparell, vsed this farewell followinge: _P._ Sweet Maiestie, be pleased to looke vpon a poore Wydow, mourning before your Grace. I am this _Place_, which at your comming was full of ioy; but now at your departure am as full of sorrow. I was then, for my comfort, accompanied with the present cheerful _Time_; but now he is to depart with you; and, blessed as he is, must euer fly before you: But, alas! I haue no wings, as _Time_ hath. My heauiness is such, that I must stand still, amazed to see so greate happines so sone bereft mee. Oh, that I could remoue with you, as other circumstances can! _Time_ can goe with you, _Persons_ can goe with you; they can moue like Heaven; but I, like dull Earth (as I am indeed) must stand vnmouable. I could wish my selfe like the inchanted Castle of Loue, to hould you heere for euer, but that your vertues would dissolue all my inchauntments. Then what remedy? As it is against the nature of an Angell to be circumscribed in _Place_, so it is against the nature of _Place_ to haue the motion of an Angell. I must stay forsaken and desolate. You may goe with maiestie, joy, and glory. My only suyte, before you goe, is that you will pardon the close imprisonment which you haue suffred euer since your comminge, imputinge it not to mee, but St. Swythen, who of late hath raysed soe many stormes, as I was faine to prouide this _Anchor_,[290] for you, when I did vnderstand you would put into this creeke. But now, since I perceaue this harbour is too little for you, and you will hoyse sayle and be gone, I beseech you take this Anchor with you. And I pray to Him that made both _Time_ and _Place_, that, in all places where euer you shall arriue, you may anchor as safly, as you doe and euer shall doe in the harts of my Owners. [Footnote 290: A Jewell.] THE COMPLAINT OF THE V SATYRES AGAINST THE NYMPHS. Tell me, O Nymphes, why do you Shune vs that your loues pursue? What doe the Satyres notes retaine That should merite your disdaine? On our browes if hornes doe growe, Was not Bacchus armèd soe? Yet of him the Candian maid Held no scorne, nor was affraid. Say our colours tawny bee, Ph[oe]bus was not faire to see; Yet faire Clymen[291] did not shunn To bee Mother of his Sonne. If our beards be rough and long, Soe had Hercules the strong: Yet Deianier,[292] with many a kisse, Joyn'd her tender lipps to his. If our bodies hayry bee, Mars as rugged was as wee: Yet did Ilia[293] think her grac'd, For to be by Mars imbrac'd.