A PARAPHRASE.
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How happens it, my cruel miss, You're always giving me the mitten? You seem to have forgotten this: That you no longer are a kitten! A woman that has reached the years Of that which people call discretion Should put aside all childish fears And see in courtship no transgression. A mother's solace may be sweet, But Hymen's tenderness is sweeter, And though all virile love be meet, You'll find the poet's love is metre. |
A PARAPHRASE BY CHAUCER.
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Syn that you, Chloe, to your moder sticken, Maketh all ye yonge bacheloures full sicken; Like as a lyttel deere you been y-hiding Whenas come lovers with theyre pityse chiding, Sothly it ben faire to give up your moder For to beare swete company with some oder; Your moder ben well enow so farre shee goeth, But that ben not farre enow, God knoweth; Wherefore it ben sayed that foolysh ladyes That marrye not shall leade an aype in Hayde; But all that do with gode men wed full quicklye When that they be on dead go to ye seints full sickerly. |
HORACE I, 5.
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What perfumed, posie-dizened sirrah, With smiles for diet, Clasps you, O fair but faithless Pyrrha, On the quiet? For whom do you bind up your tresses, As spun-gold yellow— Meshes that go with your caresses, To snare a fellow? How will he rail at fate capricious, And curse you duly; Yet now he deems your wiles delicious— You perfect truly! Pyrrha, your love's a treacherous ocean— He'll soon fall in there! Then shall I gloat on his commotion, For I have been there! |