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Ad Janitorem, ut fores sibi aperiat

Unworthy porter, bound in chaines full sore,
On mooved hookes set ope the churlish dore.
Little I aske, a little entrance make,
The gate halfe ope my bent side in will take.
Long Love my body to such use makes slender
And to get out doth like apt members render.
He shewes me how unheard to passe the watch,
And guides my feete least stumbling falles they catch.
But in times past I fear'd vaine shades, and night,
Wondring if any walked without light.
Love hearing it laugh'd with his tender mother
And smiling sayed, be thou as bold as other.
Forth-with Love came, no darke night-flying spright
Nor hands prepar'd to slaughter, me affright.
Thee feare I too much: only thee I flatter,
Thy lightning can my life in pieces batter.
Why enviest me, this hostile denne unbarre,
See how the gates with my teares wat'red are.
When thou stood'st naked ready to be beate,
For thee I did thy mistris faire entreate.
But what entreates for thee some-times tooke place,
(O mischiefe) now for me obtaine small grace.
Gratis thou maiest be free, give like for like,
Night goes away: the dores barre backeward strike.
Strike, so againe hard chaines shall binde thee never,
Nor servile water shalt thou drinke for ever.
Hard-hearted Porter doest and wilt not heare?
With stiffe oake propt the gate doth still appeare.
Such rampierd gates beseiged Cittyes ayde,
In midst of peace why art of armes afraide?
Excludst a lover, how wouldst use a foe?
Strike backe the barre, night fast away doth goe.
With armes or armed men I come not guarded,
I am alone, were furious Love discarded.
Although I would, I cannot him cashiere
Before I be divided from my geere.
See Love with me, wine moderate in my braine,
And on my haires a crowne of flowers remaine.
Who feares these armes? who wil not go to meete them?
Night runnes away; with open entrance greete them.
Art carelesse? or ist sleepe forbids thee heare,
Giving the windes my words running in thine eare?
Well I remember when I first did hire thee,
Watching till after mid-night did not tire thee.
But now perchaunce thy wench with thee doth rest,
Ah howe thy lot is above my lot blest:
Though it be so, shut me not out therefore,
Night goes away: I pray thee ope the dore.
Erre we? or do the turned hinges sound,
And opening dores with creaking noyse abound?
We erre: a strong blast seem'd the gates to ope:
Aie me how high that gale did lift my hope!
If Boreas beares Orithyas rape in minde,
Come breake these deafe dores with thy boysterous wind.
Silent the Cittie is: nights deawie hoast
March fast away: the barre strike from the poast.
Or I more sterne then fire or sword will turne,
And with my brand these gorgeous houses burne.
Night, Love, and wine to all extreames perswade:
Night shamelesse, wine and Love are fearelesse made.
All have I spent: no threats or prayers move thee,
O harder then the dores thou gardest I prove thee.
No pritty wenches keeper maist thou bee:
The carefull prison is more meete for thee.
Now frosty night her flight beginnes to take,
And crowing Cocks poore soules to worke awake.
But thou my crowne, from sad haires tane away,
On this hard threshold till the morning lay.
That when my mistresse there beholds thee cast,
She may perceive how we the time did wast:
What ere thou art, farewell, be like me paind,
Carelesse, farewell, with my falt not distaind.
And farewell cruell posts, rough thresholds block,
And dores conjoynd with an hard iron lock.

load focus English (various, 1855)
load focus Latin (R. Ehwald, 1907)
hide References (2 total)
  • Cross-references to this page (2):
    • Harper's, Vitrum
    • A Dictionary of Greek and Roman Antiquities (1890), DOMUS
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