ELEGIA 6
Quod ab amica receptus, cum ea coire non potuit, conqueriturEither she was foule, or her attire was bad,
Or she was not the wench I wisht t'have had.
Idly I lay with her, as if I lovde not,
And like a burthen greevde the bed that mooved not.
Though both of us performd our true intent,
Yet could I not cast ancor where I meant,
She on my necke her Ivorie armes did throw,
That were as white as is the Scithean snow,
And eagerlie she kist me with her tongue,
And under mine her wanton thigh she fiong,
Yea, and she soothde me up, and calde me sir,
And usde all speech that might provoke and stirre.
Yet like as if cold hemlocke I had drunke,
It mocked me, hung down the head and suncke,
Like a dull Cipher, or rude blocke I lay,
Or shade, or body was I, who can say?
What will my age do, age I cannot shunne,
Seeing in my prime my force is spent and done?
I blush, that being youthfull, hot, and lustie,
I prove neither youth nor man, but old and rustie.
Pure rose shee, like a Nun to sacrifice,
Or one that with her tender brother lies,
Yet boorded I the golden Chie twise,
And Libas, and the white cheek'de Pitho thrise,
Corinna cravde it in a summers night,
And nine sweete bouts had we before day light.
What, wast my limbs through some Thesalian charms,
May spelles and droughs do sillie soules such harmes?
With virgin waxe hath some imbast my joynts,
And pierst my liver with sharpe needle poynts?
Charmes change corne to grasse, and makes it dye,
By charmes are running springs and fountaines drie,
By charmes maste drops from okes, from vines grapes fall,
And fruit from trees, when ther's no wind at al.
Why might not then my sinews be inchanted,
And I grow faint, as with some spirit haunted?
To this ad shame, shame to performe it quaild mee,
And was the second cause why vigor failde mee:
My idle thoughts delighted her no more,
Then did the robe or garment which she wore,
Yet might her touch make youthfull Pilius fire,
And Tithon livelier then his yeeres require.
Even her I had, and she had me in vaine,
What might I crave more if I aske againe?
I thinke the great Gods greeved they had bestowde
This benefite, which lewdly I forslowd:
I wisht to be received in, in I get me,
To kisse, I kisse, to lie with her shee let me.
Why was I blest? why made king to refuse it?
Chuf-like had I not gold, and could not use it?
So in a spring thrives he that told so much,
And lookes uppon the fruits he cannot touch.
Hath any rose so from a fresh yong maide,
As she might straight have gone to church and praide:
Well, I beleeve she kist not as she should,
Nor usde the slight nor cunning which she could,
Huge okes, hard Adamantes might she have moved,
And with sweete words cause deafe rockes to have loved,
Worthy she was to move both Gods and men,
But neither was I man, nor lived then.
Can deafe eares take delight when Phemius sings,
Or Thamiras in curious painted things?
What sweete thought is there but I had the same?
And one gave place still as another came.
Yet notwithstanding, like one dead it lay,
Drouping more then a Rose puld yesterday:
Now when he should not jette, he boults upright,
And craves his taske, and seekes to be at fight.
Lie downe with shame, and see thou stirre no more,
Seeing now thou wouldst deceive me as before:
Thou cousenst mee, by thee surprizde am I,
And bide sore losse, with endlesse infamie.
Nay more, the wench did not disdaine a whit,
To take it in her hand and play with it.
But when she saw it would by no meanes stand,
But still droupt downe, regarding not her hand,
Why mockst thou me she cried, or being ill,
Who bad thee lie downe here against thy will?
Either th'art witcht with blood of frogs new dead,
Or jaded camst thou from some others bed.
With that her loose gowne on, from me she cast her,
In skipping out her naked feete much grac'd her.
And least her maide should know of this disgrace,
To cover it, spilt water in the place.