18
THE MERIE BALLAD
A prettye rising wombe without a wenne,
that shine[s] as bright as any christell gemme,
And beares out like the riseing of a hill,
at whose decline the[r] runnes a fountayne still,
That hath her mouth besett with rugged briers,
resembling much a duskye nett of wires:
A lusty buttock, barrd with azure vaines,
whose comely swellinge, when my hand restraines,
Or harmles checketh with a wanton gripe,
it makes the fruite thereof too soone be ripe,
A pleasure pluckt to tymely from his springe
it is, dyes e’re it can enioye the vsed thinge.
O Godes, that ever any thing soe sweete,
soe suddenly should fade awaye, and fleete!
Her armes and legges and all were spredd,
But I was all vnarmed,
Like one that Ouid’s cursed hemlocke charmd,
[Petyt MS.][So are my Limm’s unwealdlie for the fight,]
that spent there strength in thought of your delight.
What shall I doe, to shewe my selfe a man?
Yt will not be, for ought that beauty cann:
I kisse, I clipp, I winck, I feele at will,
Yet lyes he dead, not feeling good or ill.
“By Holly dame (quoth she), and wilt not staund?
now lett me roule and rub it in my hand!
[? silly]Perhapps the seely worme hath laboured sore,
and worked soe that it cann doe noe more:
Which if it be, as I doe greately dreade,
that shine[s] as bright as any christell gemme,
And beares out like the riseing of a hill,
at whose decline the[r] runnes a fountayne still,
That hath her mouth besett with rugged briers,
resembling much a duskye nett of wires:
A lusty buttock, barrd with azure vaines,
whose comely swellinge, when my hand restraines,
Or harmles checketh with a wanton gripe,
it makes the fruite thereof too soone be ripe,
A pleasure pluckt to tymely from his springe
it is, dyes e’re it can enioye the vsed thinge.
O Godes, that ever any thing soe sweete,
soe suddenly should fade awaye, and fleete!
Her armes and legges and all were spredd,
But I was all vnarmed,
Like one that Ouid’s cursed hemlocke charmd,
[Petyt MS.][So are my Limm’s unwealdlie for the fight,]
that spent there strength in thought of your delight.
What shall I doe, to shewe my selfe a man?
Yt will not be, for ought that beauty cann:
I kisse, I clipp, I winck, I feele at will,
Yet lyes he dead, not feeling good or ill.
“By Holly dame (quoth she), and wilt not staund?
now lett me roule and rub it in my hand!
[? silly]Perhapps the seely worme hath laboured sore,
and worked soe that it cann doe noe more:
Which if it be, as I doe greately dreade,
