My boat swings out and back,
Moored among mint and rush.
The river's ruffled speed
Laughs in the white wind's track.
My idle fingers crush
A crinkled, scented reed.

Who needs his fate provoke?
A spirit in all things flows,
And I with them flow too,
Content to eye long boughs
Of silvering willow stroke
Slowly the summer blue.

Drat my hateful birthday
to be spent in the boring old country.
It's going to be a day of mourning
without Cerinthus to hug.
Oh the joys of city life!
Is a musty old country house
Any fit place for a girl?
And that freezing river at Arezzo!
Please, sweet Messalla, relax,
too anxious, as ever, for my comfort!
Banish this grim expedition
totally out of your mind.
If I'm to be snatched away
I'll leave heart and soul behind here,
Since I'm not to be granted
licence to run my life.

Truce, gentle Love, a Parly now I crave,
Me thinkes 'tis long since first these Warres begun,
Nor thou, nor I, the better yet can have:
Bad is the Match, where neither partie wonne.
I offer free Conditions of faire Peace,
My Heart for Hostage that it shall remaine,
Discharge our Forces, here let Malice cease,
So for my Pledge thou give me Pledge againe.
Or if no thing but Death will serve thy turne,
Still thirsting for subversion of my state;
Doe what thou canst, raze, massacre, and burne;
Let the World see the utmost of thy hate:

When first I Ended, then I first Began,
Then more I Traveld, further from my Rest,
Where most I Lost, there most of all I Wan,
Pined with Hunger, rising from a Feast.
Me thinkes I Flie, yet want I legges to Goe,
Wise in Conceit, in Act a very sot,
Ravish'd with Joy amid'st a hell of Woe,
What most I Seeme, that surest am I Not.
I build my Hopes a world above the Skie,
Yet with the Mole I creepe into the Earth,
In Plenty I am starv'd with Penurie,
And yet I Surfet in the greatest Dearth:
I have, I want, Despaire, and yet Desire,

Since ther's no helpe, Come let us kisse and part,
Nay, I have done: You get no more of Me,
And I am glad, yea glad withall my heart,
That thus so cleanly, I my Selfe can free,
Shake hands for ever, Cancell all our Vowes,
And when We meet at any time againe,
Be it not seene in either of our Browes,
That We one jot of for mer Love reteyne;
Now at the last gaspe, of Loves latest Breath,
When his Pulse fayling, Passion speechlesse lies,
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of Death,
And Innocence is closing up his Eyes,

Define my Weale, and tell the joyes of Heaven,
Expresse my Woes, and shew the paines of Hell,
Declare what Fate unlucky Starres have given,
And aske a World upon my Life to dwell.
Make knowne the Faith, that Fortune could not move,
Compare my Worth with others base Desert,
Let Vertue be the Touch-stone of my Love,
So may the Heavens read wonders in my Heart;
Behold the Clouds which have eclips'd my Sunne,
And view the Crosses which my course doe let,
Tell Me, if ever since the World begunne,
So Faire a rising, had so Foule a set:

As love and I, late harbour'd in one Inne,
With Proverbs thus each other intertaine:
In Love there is no lack, thus I begin,
Faire words make Fooles, replyeth he againe;
Who spares to speake, doth spare to speed (quoth I)
As well (sayth he) too forward, as too slow;
Fortune assists the boldest, I reply,
A hastie Man (quoth he) ne'r wanted Woe;
Labour is light, where Love (quoth I) doth pay,
(Saith he) Light Burthen's heavy, if farre borne;
(Quoth I) The Maine lost, cast the By away;
You have spunne a faire Thred, he replyes in scorne.

In former times, such as had store of Coyne,
In Warres at home, or when for Conquests bound,
For feare that some their Treasure should purloyne,
Gave it to keepe to Spirits within the Ground;
And to attend it, them as strongly ty'd,
Till they return'd: Home when they never came,
Such as by Art to get the same have try'd,
From the strong Spirit by no meanes force the same;
Neerer Men come, That further flyes away,
Striving to hold it strongly in the Deepe:
Ev'n as this Spirit, so you alone doe play
With those rich Beauties Heav'n gives you to keepe:

You best discern'd of my Minds inward Eyes,
And yet your Graces outwardly Divine,
Whose deare remembrance in my Bosome lyes,
Too rich a Relique for so poore a Shrine:
You, in whom Nature chose her selfe to view,
When she her owne perfection would admire,
Bestowing all her Excellence on you;
At whose pure Eyes, Love lights his hallow'd Fire,
Ev'n as a Man that in some Trance hath seene
More then his wond'ring utt'rance can unfold,
That rapt in Spirit, in better Worlds hath beene,
So must your prayse distractedly be told;

When like an Eaglet I first found my Love,
For that the vertue I thereof would know,
Upon the Nest I set it forth, to prove
If it were of that Kingly kind, or no:
But it no sooner saw my Sunne appeare,
But on her Rayes with open Eyes it stood,
To shew, that I had hatch'd it for the Ayre,
And rightly came from that brave mounting Brood;
And when the Plumes were summ'd with sweet desire,
To prove the Pynions, it ascends the Skyes;
Doe what I could, it needsly would aspire
To my Soules Sunne, those two Celestiall Eyes: