'The boar!' quoth she; whereat a sudden pale, Like lawn being spread upon the blushing rose, Usurps her cheeks, she trembles at his tale, And on his neck her yoking arms she throws: She sinketh down, still hanging by his neck, He on her belly falls, she on her back. Now is she in the very lists of love, Her champion mounted for the hot encounter: All is imaginary she doth prove, He will not manage her, although he mount her; That worse than Tantalus' is her annoy, To clip Elysium and to lack her joy. Even as poor birds, deceiv'd with painted grapes, Do surfeit by the eye and pine the maw, Even so she languisheth in her mishaps, As those poor birds that helpless berries saw. The warm effects which she in him finds missing, She seeks to kindle with continual kissing. But all in vain; good queen, it will not be: She hath assay'd as much as may be prov'd; Her pleading hath deserv'd a greater fee; She 's Love, she loves, and yet she is not lov'd. 'Fie, fie!' he says, 'you crush me; let me go; You have no reason to withhold me so.' 'Thou hadst been gone,' quoth she, 'sweet boy, ere this, But that thou told'st me thou wouldst hunt the boar. O! be advis'd; thou know'st not what it is With javelin's point a churlish swine to gore, Whose tushes never sheath'd he whetteth still, Like to a mortal butcher, bent to kill. 'On his bow-back he hath a battle set Of bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes; His eyes like glow-worms shine when he doth fret; His snout digs sepulchres where'er he goes; Being mov'd, he strikes whate'er is in his way, And whom he strikes his crooked tushes slay. 'His brawny sides, with hairy bristles arm'd, Are better proof than thy spear's point can enter; His short thick neck cannot be easily harrn'd; Being ireful, on the lion he will venture: The thorny brambles and embracing bushes, As fearful of him part, through whom he rushes. 'Alas! he nought esteems that face of thine, To which Love's eyes pay tributary gazes; Nor thy soft hands, sweet lips, and crystal eyne, Whose full perfection all the world amazes; But having thee at vantage, wondrous dread! Would root these beauties as he roots the mead. 'О! let him keep his loathsome cabin still; Beauty hath nought to do with such foul fiends: Come not within his danger by thy will; They that thrive well take counsel of their friends. When thou didst name the boar, not to dissemble, I fear'd thy fortune, and my joints did tremble. 'Didst thou not mark my face? was it not white? Saw'st thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye? Grew I not faint? And fell I not downright? Within my bosom, whereon thou dost lie, My boding heart pants, beats, and takes no rest, But, like an earthquake, shakes thee on my breast. 'For where Love reigns, disturbing Jealousy Doth call himself Affection's sentinel; Gives false alarms, suggesteth mutiny, And in a peaceful hour doth cry 'Kill, kill!' Distempering gentle Love in his desire, As air and water do abate the fire. This sour informer, this bate-breeding spy, This canker that eats up Love's tender spring, This carry-tale, dissentious Jealousy, That sometime true news, sometime false doth bring, Knocks at my heart, and whispers in mine ear That if I love thee, I thy death should fear: 'And more than so, presenteth to mine eye The picture of an angry-chafing boar,
