ELEGIA 18Ad Macrum, quod de amoribus scribat
To tragick verse while thou Achilles trainst,
And new sworne souldiours maiden armes retainst,
Wee Macer sit in Venus slothfull shade,
And tender love hath great things hatefull made.
Often at length, my wench depart, I bid,
Shee in my lap sits still as earst she did.
I sayd it irkes me: halfe to weping framed,
Aye me she cries, to love, why art a shamed?
Then wreathes about my necke her winding armes,
And thousand kisses gives, that worke my harmes:
I yeeld, and back my wit from battells bring,
Domesticke acts, and mine owne warres to sing.
Yet tragedies, and scepters fild my lines,
But though I apt were for such high deseignes,
Love laughed at my cloak, and buskines painted,
And rule so soone with private hands acquainted.
My Mistris deity also drewe me fro it,
And Love triumpheth ore his buskind Poet.
What lawfull is, or we professe Loves art,
(Alas my precepts turne my selfe to smart)
We write, or what Penelope sends Ulysses,
Or Phillis teares that her Demophoon misses,
What thanklesse Jason, Macareus, and Paris,
Phedra, and Hipolite may read, my care is,
And what poore Dido with her drawne sword sharpe,
Doth say, with her that lov'd the Aonian harpe.
As soone as from strange lands Salinus came,
And writings did from diverse places frame,
White-cheekt Penelope knewe Ulisses signe,
The stepdame read Hyppolitus lustlesse line.
Eneas to Elisa answere gives,
And Phillis hath to reade; if now she lives.
Jasons sad letter doth Hipsipile greete,
Sappho her vowed harpe laies at Phoebus feete.
Nor of thee Macer that resoundst forth armes,
Is golden love hid in Mars mid alarmes.
There Paris is, and Helens crymes record,
With Laodameia mate to her dead Lord.
Unlesse I erre to these thou more incline,
Then warres, and from thy tents wilt come to mine.