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[In a vale with flowrets spangled.]


146

[In a vale with flowrets spangled.]

In a vale with flowrets spangled.
Strephon meeting her thus plained
To the Nymph that had intangled,
And to her his Bosome Chained,
Tarry O tarry faire
at the sigh's at the prayre
of who thy deare eyes admires
Hark how each thing wee see
doe all discourse of shee,
so thy Beauty all Inspires.
The Birds thy praises sing smooth windes the blessing
acknowledge to thy breath Of their sweet breathing.
Th'earth sayes thou art their spring, each flower confessing
their sent and Colour was Of thy bequeathing.
Thus sung hee, but the Nymph fled him,
Him and all his praises scorning:
Wherefore as his anger led him
To dispraise his praises turning.
Stay cruell stay he cryes,
And let thy Eares and Eyes,
Of thy faults the Records bee.
And those that prais'd thee late,
See how thy Scornes they hate.
In their due remorce of mee.
Harke the Birds cry like th'Owle, th'art all their wonder,
The windes would blow thee hence thy absence hasting,
Th'earth sayes thy frownes are but a dartlesse thunder,
Flowers smile, nor feare thy frosty bosomes blasting.