What wax so frozen but dissolves with temp’ring,
And yields at last to every light impression?
Things out of hope are compass’d oft with vent’ring,
Chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission: 568
Affection faints not like a pale-fac’d coward,
But then woos best when most his choice is froward.
When he did frown, O had she then gave over,
Such nectar from his lips she had not suck’d. 572
Foul words and frowns must not repel a lover;
What though the rose have prickles, yet ’tis pluck’d.
Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast,
Yet love breaks through, and picks them all at last.
For pity now she can no more detain him; 577
The poor fool prays her that he may depart:
She is resolv’d no longer to restrain him,
Bids him farewell, and look well to her heart, 580
The which by Cupid’s bow she doth protest,
He carries thence encaged in his breast.
“Sweet boy,” she says, “this night I’ll waste in sorrow,
For my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch. 584
Tell me, love’s master, shall we meet tomorrow
Say, shall we? shall we? wilt thou make the match?”
He tells her no, tomorrow he intends
To hunt the boar with certain of his friends. 588
“The boar!” quoth she; whereat a sudden pale,
Like lawn being spread upon the blushing rose,
Usurps her cheek, she trembles at his tale,
And on his neck her yoking arms she throws. 592
She sinketh down, still hanging by his neck,
He on her belly falls, she on her back.
Now is she in the very lists of love,
Her champion mounted for the hot encounter: 596
All is imaginary she doth prove,
He will not manage her, although he mount her;
That worse than Tantalus’ is her annoy,
To clip Elysium and to lack her joy. 600
Even as poor birds, deceiv’d with painted grapes,
Do surfeit by the eye and pine the maw:
Even so she languisheth in her mishaps,
As those poor birds that helpless berries saw. 604
The warm effects which she in him finds missing,
She seeks to kindle with continual kissing.
But all in vain, good queen, it will not be,
She hath assay’d as much as may be prov’d; 608
Her pleading hath deserv’d a greater fee;
She’s love, she loves, and yet she is not lov’d.
“Fie, fie,” he says, “you crush me; let me go;
You have no reason to withhold me so.” 612
“Thou hadst been gone,” quoth she, “sweet boy, ere this,
But that thou told’st me thou wouldst hunt the boar.
Oh be advis’d; thou know’st not what it is,
With javelin’s point a churlish swine to gore, 616
Whose tushes never sheath’d he whetteth still,
Like to a mortal butcher, bent to kill.
“On his bow-back he hath a battle set
Of bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes; 620
His eyes like glow-worms shine when he doth fret;
His snout digs sepulchres where’er he goes;
Being mov’d, he strikes whate’er is in his way,
And whom he strikes his crooked tushes slay. 624