No More Learning

Whom first the cramp of hope does tear,.
And then the palsy shakes of fear ;
The pestilence of love does heat.
Or hatred's hidden ulcer eat ;
Joy's cheerful madness does perplex,.
Or sorrow's other madness vex ;
Which knowledge forces me to know,
And memory will not forego ;
What but a soul could have the wit
To build me up for sin so fit?
So architects do squai*c and hew
Green trees that in the forest grew.



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46 THE POEMS



THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE
DEATH OF HER FAWN.

The wanton troopers riding by,
Have shot my fawn, and it will die.
Ungentle men ! they cannot thrive
Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst alive
Them any harm, alas ! nor could
Thy death yet do them any good.
I'm sure I never wished them ill ;
Nor do I for all this, nor will :
But, if my simple prayers may yet
Prevail with heaven to forget
Thy murder, I will join my tears.
Rather than fail. But, O my fears !
It cannot die so.
Heaven's king
Keeps register of every thing,
And nothing may we use in vain ;
Even beasts must be with justice slain.
Else men are made their deodands.
Though they should wash their guilty hands
In this warm life-blood which doth part
From thine and wound me to the hcurt.



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OP MAR V ELL.

Yet could they not be clean, their stain
Is dyed in such a purple grain.
There is not such another in
The world, to oflfer for their sin.

Inconstant Stlvio, when yet
I had not found him counterfeit.
One morning (I remember well)
Tied in this silver chain and bell.
Gave it to me : nay, and I know
What he said then, I'm sure I do ;
Said he, ' Look how your huntsman here
' Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer. '
But Sylyio soon had me beguiled ;
This waxed tame, while he grew wild,
And quite regardless of my smart,
Left me his fawn, but took his heart.

Thenceforth I set myself to play
My solitary time away
With this ; and, very well content.
Could so mine idle life have spent ;
For it was full of sport, and light
Of foot and heart, and did invite
Me to its game : it seemed to bless
Itself in me ; how could I less
Than love it ? 01 cannot be
Unkind to a beast that loveth me.

Had it lived long, I do not know
Whether it too might have done so



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48 THE POEMS

As Sylyio did ; his gifts might be
Perhaps as false, or more, than he ;
But I am sure, for aught that I
Could in so short a time espj.
Thy love was far more better than
The love of fabe and cruel man.

With sweetest milk and sugar first
I it at my own fingers nursed ;
And as it grew, so every day
It waxed more white and sweet than they.