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Page 77 - Love in my bosom like a bee Doth suck his sweet; Now with his wings he plays with me, Now with his feet. Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed amidst my tender breast; My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest. Ah, wanton, will ye?
Page 78 - I'll count your power not worth a pin: Alas, what hereby shall I win, If he gainsay me ? What if I beat the wanton boy With many a rod ? He will repay me with annoy, Because a god. Then sit thou safely on my knee, And let thy bower my bosom be, Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee; O Cupid, so thou pity me, Spare not, but play thee.
Page 33 - At last he left me, where at first he found me, Willing me let the world and ladies knowe Of Scilla's pride, and then by oath he bound me To write no more of that whence shame dooth grow: Or tie my pen to pennie-knaues delight But liue with fame, and so for fame to wright.
Page 87 - Sighs and words could never draw her. 0 my love, Thou art lost, Since no sight could ever ease thee. Phoebe sat By a fount; Sitting by a fount I spied her: Sweet her touch, Rare her voice: Touch and voice what may distain you?
Page 77 - I sleep, then percheth he With pretty flight, And makes his pillow of my knee The livelong night. Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; He music plays if so I sing; He lends me every lovely thing; Yet cruel he my heart doth sting. Whist, wanton, still ye!
Page xiii - Master Rafe Crane, and the rest of his most entire well willers, the Gentlemen of the Innes of Court andChancerie.
Page xi - Scillaes Metamorphosis: enterlaced with the unfortunate Love of Glaucus. Whereunto is annexed the delectable Discourse of the discontented Satyre: with sundrie other most absolute Poems and Sonnets.
Page 31 - The wretch reportes : and then her armes she wrings Whilst Eccho tells her this, he hateth Scilla. No hope (quoth she) : no hope (quoth Eccho) then , Then fie on men : when she said, fie on men. Furie and Rage, Wan-hope, Dispaire and Woe, From Ditis den by Ate sent, drewe nie...
Page xv - Ariued she is, though in a contrary coast, but so wrackt, and weatherbeaten, through the vnskilfulnes of rough writers, that made their poast haste passage by night, as Glaucus would scarce know her, if he met her: yet my hope is Gentlemen, that you wil not so much imagine what she is, as what shee was; insomuch as from the shop of the Painter, shee is falne into the hands of the stainer.