And whose the pretty prize should be
They vow’d to ask the Gods.
Which Venus hearing, thither came,
And for their boldness stript them;
And taking thence from each his flame,
With rods of myrtle whipt them.
Which done, to still their wanton cries,
When quiet grown she’d seen them,
She kiss’d and wiped their dove-like eyes,
And gave the bag between them.
But only craveOf you that I may haveA sacred laurel springing from my grave:Which being seenBlest with perpetual green,May grow to beNot so much call’d a tree,As the eternal monument of me.
If so it be I’ve gain’d the shore,With safety of a faithful oar;If having run my barque on ground,Ye see the aged vessel crown’d;What’s to be done? but on the sandsYe dance and sing, and now clap hands.–The first act’s doubtful, but (we say)It is the last commends the Play.
Or else a cherry (double graced)Within a lily? Centre placed?Or ever marked the pretty beamA strawberry shows half drowned in cream?Or seen rich rubies blushing throughA pure smooth pearl, and orient too?So like to this, nay all the rest,Is each neat niplet of her breast.
Come pity us, ye passers-by,Who see or hear poor widows’ cry;Come pity us, and bring your earsAnd eyes to pity widows’ tears.CHOR. And when you are come hither,Then we will keepA fast, and weepOur eyes out all together,For Tabitha; who dead lies here,Clean wash’d, and laid out for the bier.O modest matrons, weep and wail!For…
A wager, and let it be this :Who first to the sumOf twenty shall come,Shall have for his winning a kiss.
