Cant. VI.
the Faery Queene:
261
Out of her fruitfull lap; how noman knowes,They spring, they bud, they blossome fresh and faire,And decke the world with their rich pōpous showes;Yet no man for them taketh paines or care,Yet no man to them can his carefull paines compare.
The lilly, Lady of the flowring field,The flowre deluce, her louely Paramoure,Bid thee to them thy fruitlesse labors yield,And soone leaue off this toylsome weary stoure;Loe loe how braue she decks her bounteous boure,With silkin curtens and gold couerletts,Therein to shrowd her sumptuous Belamoure,Yet nether spinnes nor cards, ne cares nor fretts,But to her mother Nature all her care she letts.
Why then doest thou, O man, that of them allArt Lord, and eke of nature Soueraine,Wilfully make thy selfe a wretched thrall,And waste thy ioyous howres in needelesse paine,Seeking for daunger and aduentures vaine?What bootes it al to haue, and nothing vse?Who shall him rew, that swimming in the maine,Will die for thrist, and water doth refuse?Refuse such fruitlesse toile, and present pleasures chuse.
By this she had him lulled fast a sleepe,That of no wordly thing he care did take;Then she with liquors strong his eies did steepe,That nothing should him hastily awake:So she him lefte, and did her selfe betakeVnto her boat again, with which she clefteThe slouthfull waue of that great griesy lake;Soone shee that Island far behind her lefte,And now is come to that same place, where first she wefte.
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