Poems and Dramas of Fulke Greville :: :: University of Virginia Library

A Theefe, risen early vp to seeke his prey,
Spieth a pretty Boy, whereas he lay,
Crying fast by a well:
He wills him why to tell,
And sweares to make him well, if that he may.

The pretty Boy smileth, and thanketh the man,
Told him, that he hath falne his Fathers Canne,
All of Gold in the deepe,
Which losse did make him weepe;
Prayeth him counsell keepe; helpe if he can.

The Man not for conscience, but onely for hope,
Puts off his clothes, goes downe by the rope,
Meaning to haue the Cup,
If he can get it vp;
He spills that steales a sup; hast loseth hope.

For while in the water the false fellow sought,
The pretty Boy steales his cloke, well was he taught:
Wet comes the fellow vp,
He cannot find the Cup;
His cloke is taken vp; falshood is naught.

Little lad Cupid, by night and by day,
Wonted in beauties face wanton to play,
Fast bound and prison'd lyes,
In Myra's stealing eyes,
Woefully whence he cries, to runne away.

I asked the Boy, the Boy telleth his case,
He saith, that Vertue seeks Beauties disgrace,
Vertue that grieues to find,
With what an humble minde,
Men are to Beautie kinde, and her deface.

Vertue thinks all this is long of my bow,
Which hiding her Beauties doe counterfeits show,
And Beautie Vertues arme,
With such a modest charme,
As my shafts doe no harme: she can say, No.

I that was wont to make wisdome a toy,
Vertue a pastime, am now made a boy,
I am throwne from the heart,
Banish'd is Passions art,
Neither may I depart, nor yet enioy.

This was the cause, he said, made him complaine,
He sweares, if I help him, to help me againe;
And straightwayes offers me,
If Vertue conquer'd be,
Beauty and Pleasure free; Ioy without paine.

I glad, not for pittie, but hope of the prize,
And proud of this language from Cælica's eyes,
Threw off my liberty,
Hoping that blessed I,
Shall with sweet Cupid flye, in Beauties skyes.

But when in my heart I had peeced his bow,
And on the ayre of my thoughts made his wings goe,
The little Lad feares the rod,
He is not there a God,
I and delight are odd: Myra sayes, No.

The Flint keepeth fire, the Lad he sayes true,
But bellowes it will not be kindled by you;
He that takes starres with staues,
Yet hath not all he craues;
Loue is not his that raues: hope is vntrue.