Behold, what gives the poet but new verses? And therefore many thousand he rehearses. The poet's god arrayed in robes of gold, Of his gilt harp the well-tuned strings doth hold. 60 Let Homer yield to such as presents bring, (Trust me) to give, it is a witty thing. Nor, so thou may'st obtain a wealthy prize, The vain name of inferior slaves despise. Nor let the arms of ancient lines[178] beguile thee; Poor lover, with thy grandsires I exile thee. Who seeks, for being fair, a night to have, What he will give, with greater instance crave. Make a small price, while thou thy nets dost lay; Lest they should fly; being ta'en, the tyrant play. 70 Dissemble so, as loved he may be thought, And take heed lest he gets that love for naught. Deny him oft; feign now thy head doth ache: And Isis now will show what 'scuse to make. Receive him soon, lest patient use he gain, Or lest his love oft beaten back should wane. To beggars shut, to bringers ope thy gate; Let him within hear barred-out lovers prate. And, as first wronged, the wrongËd sometimes banish; Thy fault with his fault so repulsed will vanish. 80 But never give a spacious time to ire; Anger delayed doth oft to hate retire. And let thine eyes constrainËd learn to weep, That this or that man may thy cheeks moist keep. Nor, if thou cozenest one, dread to forswear, Venus to mocked men lends a senseless ear. Servants fit for thy purpose thou must hire, To teach thy lover what thy thoughts desire. Let them ask somewhat; many asking little, Within a while great heaps grow of a tittle. 90 And sister, nurse, and mother spare him not; By many hands great wealth is quickly got. When causes fail thee to require a gift By keeping of thy birth, make but a shift. Beware lest he, unrivalled, loves secure; Take strife away, love doth not well endure. On all the bed men's tumbling[179] let him view, And thy neck with lascivious marks made blue. Chiefly show him the gifts, which others send: If he gives nothing, let him from thee wend. 100 When thou hast so much as he gives no more, Pray him to lend what thou may'st ne'er restore. Let thy tongue flatter, while thy mind harm works; Under sweet honey deadly poison lurks. If this thou dost, to me by long use known, (Nor let my words be with the winds hence blown) Oft thou wilt say, 'live well;' thou wilt pray oft, That my dead bones may in their grave lie soft." As thus she spake, my shadow me betrayed; With much ado my hands I scarcely stayed; 110 But her blear eyes, bald scalp's thin hoary fleeces, And rivelled[180] cheeks I would have pulled a-pieces. The gods send thee no house, a poor old age,