And must we part, because some say Loud is our love, and loose our play, And more than well becomes the day? Alas for pity! and for us Most innocent, and injured thus! Had we kept close, or played within, Suspicion now had been the sin, And shame had followed long ere this, T' have plagued what now unpunished is. But we, as fearless of the sun, As faultless, will not wish undone What now is done, since _where no sin Unbolts the door, no shame comes in_. Then, comely and most fragrant maid, Be you more wary than afraid Of these reports, because you see The fairest most suspected be. The common forms have no one eye Or ear of burning jealousy To follow them: but chiefly where Love makes the cheek and chin a sphere To dance and play in, trust me, there Suspicion questions every hair. Come, you are fair, and should be seen While you are in your sprightful green: And what though you had been embraced By me--were you for that unchaste? No, no! no more than is yond' moon Which, shining in her perfect noon, In all that great and glorious light, Continues cold as is the night. Then, beauteous maid, you may retire; And as for me, my chaste desire Shall move towards you, although I see Your face no more. So live you free From fame's black lips, as you from me. 137. SINGLE LIFE MOST SECURE. Suspicion, discontent, and strife Come in for dowry with a wife. 138. THE CURSE. A SONG. Go, perjured man; and if thou e'er return To see the small remainders in mine urn, When thou shalt laugh at my religious dust, And ask: where's now the colour, form and trust Of woman's beauty? and with hand more rude Rifle the flowers which the virgins strewed: Know I have prayed to Fury that some wind May blow my ashes up, and strike thee blind. 139. THE WOUNDED CUPID. SONG. Cupid, as he lay among Roses, by a bee was stung; Whereupon, in anger flying To his mother, said thus, crying: Help! oh help! your boy's a-dying. And why, my pretty lad, said she? Then, blubbering, replied he: A winged snake has bitten me, Which country people call a bee. At which she smiled; then, with her hairs And kisses drying up his tears: Alas! said she, my wag, if this Such a pernicious torment is, Come tell me then, how great's the smart Of those thou woundest with thy dart! 140. TO DEWS. A SONG. I burn, I burn; and beg of you To quench or cool me with your dew. I fry in fire, and so consume, Although the pile be all perfume. Alas! the heat and death's the same, Whether by choice or common flame, To be in oil of roses drowned, Or water; where's the comfort found? Both bring one death; and I die here Unless you cool me with a tear: Alas! I call; but ah! I see Ye cool and comfort all but me.