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Ad Cererem, conquerens quod eius sacris cum amica concumbere non permittatur

Come were the times of Ceres sacrifize,
In emptie bed alone my mistris lies.
Golden-hair'd Ceres crownd with eares of come,
Why are our pleasures by thy meanes forborne?
Thee, goddesse, bountifull all nations judge,
Nor lesse at mans prosperity any grudge.
Rude husband-men bak'd not their come before,
Nor on the earth was knowne the name of floore.
On mast of oakes, first oracles, men fed,
This was their meate, the soft grasse was their bed.
First Ceres taught the seede in fields to swell,
And ripe-earde come with sharpe-edg'd sithes to fell.
She first constraind bulles necks to beare the yoake,
And untild ground with crooked plough-shares broake.
Who thinkes her to be glad at lovers smart,
And worshipt by their paine, and lying apart?
Nor is she, though she loves the fertile fields,
A clowne, nor no love from her warme brest yeelds.
Be witnesse Crete(nor Crete doth all things feigne)
Crete proud that Jove her nourcery maintaine.
There, he who rules the worlds starre-spangled towers,
A little boy druncke teate-distilling showers.
Faith to the witnesse Joves praise doth apply,
Ceres, I thinke, no knowne fault will deny.
The goddesse sawe Iasion on Candyan Ide,
With strong hand striking wild-beasts brist'led hyde.
She sawe, and as her marrowe tooke the flame,
Was divers waies distract with love, and shame.
Love conquer'd shame, the furrowes dry were bumd,
And come with least part of it selfe retumd.
When well-toss'd mattocks did the ground prepare,
Being fit broken with the crooked share,
And seedes were equally in large fields cast,
The plough-mans hopes were frustrate at the last.
The graine-rich goddesse in high woods did stray,
Her long haires eare-wrought garland fell away.
Onely was Crete fruitfull that plenteous yeare,
Where Ceres went each place was harvest there.
Ida the seate of groves did sing with corne,
Which by the wild boare in the woods was shorne.
Law-giving Minos did such yeares desire;
And wisht the goddesse long might feele loves fire.
Ceres what sports to thee so grievous were,
As in thy sacrifize we them forbeare?
Why am I sad, when Proserpine is found,
And Juno like with Dis raignes under ground?
Festivall dayes aske Venus, songs, and wine,
These gifts are meete to please the powers divine.

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