yet weigh me.
My soul fleets[441] when I think what you have done,
And thorough[442] every vein doth cold blood run.
Then thee whom I must love, I hate in vain,
And would be dead, but dead[443] with thee remain. 40
I'll not sift much, but hold thee soon excused.
Say but thou wert injuriously accused.
Though while the deed be doing you be took,
And I see when you ope the two-leaved book,[444]
Swear I was blind; deny[445] if you be wise,
And I will trust your words more than mine eyes.
From him that yields, the palm[446] is quickly got,
Teach but your tongue to say, "I did it not,"
And being justified by two words, think
The cause acquits you not, but I[447] that wink. 50

FOOTNOTES:

[435] So Isham copy and eds. B, C.--Ed. A "wit."

[436] So Isham copy.--Ed. A "night-sports."

[437] So eds. B, C.--Isham copy and ed. A "Or."

[438] So Isham copy.--Ed. A "people."

[439] So Isham copy.--Ed. A "toyes."

[440] So eds. B, C.--Isham copy and ed. A "mine ever yours."

[441] "Mens abit."

[442] So eds. B, C.--Isham copy and ed. A "through."

[443] So eds. B, C.--Isham copy and ed. A "dying."

[444] The original has

"Et fuerint oculis probra videnda meis."

[445] So eds. B, C.--Isham copy and ed. A "yeeld not."

[446] So eds. B, C.--Isham copy and ed. A "garland."

[447] So Isham copy and eds. A, B.--Ed. C "that I."

ELEGIA XV.[448]

Ad Venerem, quod elegis finem imponat.

Tender Loves' mother[449] a new poet get,
This last end to my Elegies is set.[450]
Which I, Peligny's foster-child, have framed,
Nor am I by such wanton toys defamed.
Heir of an ancient house, if help that can,
Not only by war's rage[451] made gentleman.
In Virgil Mantua joys: in Catull Verone;
Of me Peligny's nation boasts alone;
Whom liberty to honest arms compelled,
When careful Rome in doubt their prowess held.[452] 10
And some guest viewing watery Sulmo's walls,
Where little ground to be enclosed befalls,
"How such a poet could you bring forth?" says:
"How small soe'er, I'll you for greatest praise."
Both loves, to whom my heart long time did yield,[453]
Your golden ensigns pluck[454] out of my field.
Horned Bacchus graver fury doth distil,
A greater ground with great horse is to till.
Weak Elegies, delightful Muse, farewell;
A work