Cli. Thy voice, Narcisse, so softly & so loude,
Makes in mine eares more musicke then a crowde
Of most melodious minstrells, & thy tonge
Is edged with silver, & with iewells strunge;
Thy throate, which speaketh ever & anan,
Is farre more shriller then the pipe of Pan,
Thy weasand pipe is clearer then an organ,
Thy face more faire then was the head of Gorgon,
Thy haire, which bout thy necke so faire dishevells,
Excells the haire of the faire queene of devills, 330
And thy perfumed breath farr better savours
Then does the sweat hot breath of blowing Mavors;
Thy azur'd veynes blewer then Saturne shine,
F. 75v rev.And what are Cupids eyes to those of thine?
Thy currall cheeks hath a farre better lustre
Then Ceres when the sunne in harvest bust her;
Silenus for streight backe, & I can tell yee,
You putt downe Bacchus for a slender bellye.
To passe from braunch to barke, from rine to roote,
Venus her husband hath not such a foote. 340
Dor. O thou whose cheeks are like the skye so blewe,
Whose nose is rubye, of the sunnlike hue,
Whose forhead is most plaine without all rinkle,
Whose eyes like starrs in frosty night doe twinkle,
Most hollowe are thy eyelidds, & thy ball
Whiter then ivory, brighter yea withall,
Whose ledge of teeth is farre more bright then jett is,
Whose lipps are too, too good for any lettice,
O doe thou condiscend vnto my boone,
Graunt mee thy love, graunt it, O silver spoone, 350
Silver moone, silver moone.
Cli. Graunt mee thy love, to speake I first begunne,
Graunt mee thy love, graunt it, O golden sunne.
Nar. Nor sunne, nor moone, nor twinkling starre in skye,
Nor god, nor goddesse, nor yet nimphe am I,
And though my sweete face bee sett out with rubye,
You misse your marke, I am a man as you bee.
Dor. A man, Narcisse, thou hast a manlike figure;
F. 75r rev.Then bee not like vnto the savage tiger,
So cruell as the huge camelion, 360
Nor yet so changing as small elephant.
A man, Narcisse, then bee not thou a wolfe,
To devoure my hart in thy mawes griping gulfe,
Bee none of these, & lett not nature vaunt her
That shee hath made a man like to a panther;
A man thou art, Narcisse, & soe are wee,
Then love thou vs againe as wee love thee.
Nar. A man I am, & sweare by gods above
I cannot yett find in my heart to love.
Dor. Cannott find love in hart! O search more narrowe, 370
Thou well shalt knowe him by his ivory arrowe;
That arrowe, when in breast, my bloud was tunninge,
Broacht my harts barrell, sett it all a runninge,
Which with loves liquor vnles thou doe staunch,
All my lifes liquor will runne out my paunche.
Nar. Why would you have mee love? You talke most oddlye,
Love is a naughty thinge & an ungodlye.
Cli. Is love ungodlye? Love is still a god.
Nar. But in his nonage allwaies vnder rodde.