Ay, me, (quoth Venus) young, and so vnkinde,
VVhat bare excuses mak'st thou to be gon ?
Ile sigh celestiall breath, whose gentle winde,
Shall coole the heate of this descending sun:
Ile make a shadow for thee of my heares,
If they burn too,Ile quench them with my teares.
The sun that shines from heauen, shines but warme,
And lo I lye betweene that sunne ,and thee :
The heate I haue from thence doth litle harme,
Thine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me,
And were I not immortall, life were done,
Betweene this heauenly,and earthly sunne.
Art thou obdurate, flintie, hard as steele
?
Nay more then flint, for stone at raine relenteth :
Art thou a womans sonne and canst not feele
VVhat tis to loue, how want of loue tormenteth?
O had thy mother borne so hard a minde,
She had not brought forth thee, but died vnkind.
VVhat am I that thou shouldst contemne me this ?
Or what great danger, dwels vpon my sute ?
VVhat were thy lips the worse for one poore kis ?
Speake faire,but speake faire words,or else be mute:
Giue me one kisse, Ile giue it thee againe,
And one for intrest, if thou wilt haue twaine.
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