hen that his precious breath gaue life and sent
To those dead flowers whose feruor now is spent?
O starueling Death, thou ruiner of Kings,
Thou foe to youth and beautie-sealed things,
Thou friend to none but sepulchers and graues,
High reared monuments, lasting Epitaphs,
Poore Clearks & Sextons, and some thriftlesse heires,
Depriued Priests, and a few Courtiers,
Who hauing liuings in reuersion,
Do dayly pray for quicke possession;
Who had offended thee, that blinde with rage
Thou strookst at him, for whom succeeding age
Will curse thy bones? Physitians be thy baine,
And chase thee hence to lowest hell againe.
He hearing this, from pleasing death reuiues,
And drunke those teeres from her immortall eies,
Which drop by drop sought other to displace,
That each might kisse that sweet and daintie face.
Nor doth the Soueraigne of heauens golden fires,
After a storme so answer mens desires,
When with a smiling countenance he orelooks
The flowrie fields and siluer streaming brooks,
As _Licia_ in his life was comforted,
Whom new before she thought for to be dead:
She locks her fingers in his crisped haire,
And pulles it out at length, which leauing there,
The haire bands backe at it for ioy had leapt,
To be a prisoner to hand so white:
And then she stroaks his alabaster skin,
And chucks the boy on his immortall chin,
Glassing herselfe within his matchlesse eyes,
Where little _Cupids_ conquering forces lies.
Faire Deere (quoth he) to night now wil I leaue you,
But in your charge my heart I will bequeath you;
Securely sleepe, lest in your troubled brest
If you chance sigh, you keepe my heart from rest;
Which I protest hath many a tedious night
Counted times minutes for your absent sight:
What for the nuptials will seeme requisit,
That to your charge (faire creature) I commit,
Which ere the bright Sun with his burning beame
Hath twice more coold his tresses in the maine,
Shall be performd. This sayd, away he's gone.
Farewell (quoth she:) and at that word a groane
Waited with sighs and teeres, which to preuent,
For feare his sweet heart she should discontent,
Vnto her needle in all haste she goes,
For to beguile her passions and her woes.
She first begins a smocke, of greater cost
Than _Helen_ wore that night when as she lost
Her husbands fame and honour, and thereby
Had almost kept our now lost dignitie:
For _Paris_