es athwart his breast,
And sinking downe, he set a soule taught grone,
And sigh'd, and beat his heart, since loue possest,
And dwelt in it which was before his owne.
How bitter is sweet loue, that loues alone,
And is not sympathis'd, like to a man?
Rich & full cram'd, with euery thing that's best,
Yet lyes bed-sicke, whom nothing pleasure can.

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Sometimes he would inuoke sweet Poets dead,
In their own shapes, to court the _maid_ with words
But then he fear'd least they her maidenhead
Shold win fr[=o] him: th[=e] somtimes arms & swords,
His old heroike thoughts, new roome affoords,
And to the field he would: but then loue speakes,
And tels him _Hiren_ comes vnto his bed,
Which dasheth all, and all intendments breakes.

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And lo indeed, the purple hangings drawne,
In came faire _Hiren_ in her night attire,
In a silke mantle, and a smocke of lawne,
Her haire at length, the beams of sweete desire)
Her breasts all naked, o inchanting fire!
And siluer buskins on her feet she wore,
Though all the floore with Carpet-worke was strawn
Yet were such feet too good to tread that floore.

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Now _Mahomet_ bethinke thee what is best,
Said she, compell me I will speake thy shame,
And tell thy hatefull fact, at euery feast,
Singers in balads shall berime thy name,
And for dishonoring me spot thy faire fame:
But if--: No more chast maid said _Mahomet_:
Though in thy grant consists all ioy and rest,
I will not force thee, till thou giue me it.

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But say I languish, faint, and grow forlorne,
Fall sicke, and mourne: nay, pine away for thee,
Wouldst then for euer hold me yet in scorne?
Forbid my hopes, the comfort that should be
In hopes in doating hopes which tire on me:
O be not as some women be, for fashion,
Like sun-shine daies in clouds of raine stil borne,
The more you'l loue, the more shall grow my passion.

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And then he clasp'd her frosty hand in his,
An orient pearle betwixt two mother shels,
And seal'd thereon a hearty burning kisse,
Kisses in loue, force more then charmes or spels,
And in sweet language; hopes-desires foretels,
Ah louely _Greeke_, what heart hast thou (quoth he)
What art thou made of? fire dissolueth yee,
Tygers relent, yet thoul't not pitty me.

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