Upon this promise did he raise his chin, 85
Like a dive-dapper peering through a wave,
Who, being look’d on, ducks as quickly in;
So offers he to give what she did crave, 88
But when her lips were ready for his pay,
He winks, and turns his lips another way.
Never did passenger in summer’s heat
More thirst for drink than she for this good turn. 92
Her help she sees, but help she cannot get;
She bathes in water, yet her fire must burn:
“O! pity,” ’gan she cry, “flint-hearted boy,
’Tis but a kiss I beg; why art thou coy? 96
“I have been woo’d as I entreat thee now,
Even by the stern and direful god of war,
Whose sinewy neck in battle ne’er did bow,
Who conquers where he comes in every jar; 100
Yet hath he been my captive and my slave,
And begg’d for that which thou unask’d shalt have.
“Over my altars hath he hung his lance,
His batter’d shield, his uncontrolled crest, 104
And for my sake hath learn’d to sport and dance,
To toy, to wanton, dally, smile, and jest;
Scorning his churlish drum and ensign red
Making my arms his field, his tent my bed. 108
“Thus he that overrul’d I oversway’d,
Leading him prisoner in a red rose chain:
Strong-temper’d steel his stronger strength obey’d,
Yet was he servile to my coy disdain. 112
Oh be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,
For mast’ring her that foil’d the god of fight.
“Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine,
Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red, 116
The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine:
What see’st thou in the ground? hold up thy head,
Look in mine eyeballs, there thy beauty lies;
Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes? 120
“Art thou asham’d to kiss? then wink again,
And I will wink; so shall the day seem night.
Love keeps his revels where there are but twain;
Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight, 124
These blue-vein’d violets whereon we lean
Never can blab, nor know not what we mean.
“The tender spring upon thy tempting lip 127
Shows thee unripe; yet mayst thou well be tasted,
Make use of time, let not advantage slip;
Beauty within itself should not be wasted,
Fair flowers that are not gather’d in their prime
Rot, and consume themselves in little time. 132
“Were I hard-favour’d, foul, or wrinkled old,
Ill-nurtur’d, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice,
O’erworn, despised, rheumatic, and cold,
Thick-sighted, barren, lean, and lacking juice, 136
Then mightst thou pause, for then I were not for thee;
But having no defects, why dost abhor me?
“Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow, 139
Mine eyes are grey and bright, and quick in turning;
My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow,
My flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burning,
My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt,
Would in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt. 144