And fondly doting, oft he kiss'd her lip; Oft would he dally with her ivory breasts; No wanton love-trick would he over-slip, But still observ'd all amorous beheasts, Whereby he thought he might procure the love Of his dull image, which no plaints could move. Look how the peevish[335] Papists crouch and kneel To some dumb idol with their offering, 80 As if a senseless carvèd stone could feel The ardour of his bootless chattering, So fond he was, and earnest in his suit To his remorseless image, dumb and mute. He oft doth wish his soul might part in sunder So that one half in her had residence; Oft he exclaims, "O beauty's only wonder! Sweet model of delight, fair excellence, Be gracious unto him that formèd thee, Compassionate his true love's ardency." 90 She with her silence seems to grant his suit; Then he all jocund, like a wanton lover, With amorous embracements doth salute Her slender waist, presuming to discover The vale of Love, where Cupid doth delight To sport and dally all the sable night. His eyes her eyes kindly encounterèd; His breast her breast oft joinèd close unto; His arms' embracements oft she sufferèd; Hands, arms, eyes, tongue, lips, and all parts did woo; 100 His thigh with hers, his knee play'd with her knee,-- A happy consort when all parts agree! But when he saw, poor soul, he was deceivèd (Yet scarce he could believe his sense had failed[336]), Yet when he found all hope from him bereavèd, And saw how fondly all his thoughts had erred, Then did he like to poor Ixion seem, That clipt a cloud instead of Heaven's Queen. I oft have smiled to see the foolery Of some sweet youths, who seriously protest 110 That love respects not actual luxury, But only joys to dally, sport, and jest; Love is a child, contented with a toy; A busk-point[337] or some favour stills the boy. Mark my Pygmalion, whose affections' ardour May be a mirror to posterity; Yet viewing, touching, kissing (common favour), Could never satiate his love's ardency: And therefore, ladies, think that they ne'er love you, Who do not unto more than kissing move you. 120 For Pygmalion kiss'd, view'd, and embraced, And yet exclaims, "Why were these women made, O sacred gods, and with such beauties graced! Have they not power as well to cool and shade, As for to heat men's hearts? Or is there none, Or are they all, like mine, relentless stone?" With that he takes her in his loving arms, And down within a down-bed softly laid her; Then on his knees he all his senses charms, To invocate sweet Venus for to raise her 130 To wishèd life, and to infuse some breath To that which, dead, yet gave a life to death.