The Answer

Againe,Thou witty cruell wanton, now againe,Through ev'ry veine,Hurle all your lightning, and strike ev'ry dart,Againe,Before I feele this pleasing, pleasing paine.I have no heart,Nor can I live but sweetly murder'd withSo deare, so deare a smart.

Then flye,And kindle all your torches at her eye,To make me dyeHer martyr, and put on my roabe of flame:So I,Advanced on my blazing wings on high,In death becameInthroan'd a starre, and ornament untoHer glorious, glorious name.

Heark, faire one, how what e're here isDoth laugh and sing at thy distresse;Not out of hate to thy reliefe,But joy t' enjoy thee, though in griefe.

See! that which chaynes you, you chaine here;The prison is thy prisoner;How much thy jaylor's keeper art!He bindes your hands, but you his heart.

The gyves to rase so smooth a skin,Are so unto themselves within;But, blest to kisse so fayre an arme,Haste to be happy with that harme;

And play about thy wanton wrist,As if in them thou so wert drest;But if too rough, too hard they presse,Oh, they but closely, closely kisse.

And as thy bare feet blesse the way,The people doe not mock, but pray,And call thee, as amas'd they runInstead of prostitute, a nun.

The merry torch burnes with desireTo kindle the eternall fire,And lightly daunces in thine eyesTo tunes of epithalamies.

The sheet's ty'd ever to thy wast,How thankfull to be so imbrac't!And see! thy very very bondsAre bound to thee, to binde such hands.

If teares could wash the ill away,A pearle for each wet bead I'd pay;But as dew'd corne the fuller growes,So water'd eyes but swell our woes.

One drop another cals, which still(Griefe adding fuell) doth distill;Too fruitfull of her selfe is anguish,We need no cherishing to languish.

Coward fate degen'rate manLike little children uses, whenHe whips us first, untill we weepe,Then, 'cause we still a weeping keepe.

Then from thy firme selfe never swerve;Teares fat the griefe that they should sterve;Iron decrees of destinieAre ner'e wipe't out with a wet eye.

But this way you may gaine the field,Oppose but sorrow, and 'twill yield;One gallant thorough-made resolveDoth starry influence dissolve.

This is the prittiest motion:Madam, th' alarums of a drummeThat cals your lord, set to your cries,To mine are sacred symphonies.

What, though 'tis said I have a voice;I know 'tis but that hollow noiseWhich (as it through my pipe doth speed)Bitterns do carol through a reed;In the same key with monkeys jiggs,Or dirges of proscribed piggs,Or the soft Serenades aboveIn calme of night, when cats make love.

Was ever such a consort seen!Fourscore and fourteen with forteen?Yet sooner they'l agree, one paire,Then we in our spring-winter aire;They may imbrace, sigh, kiss, the rest:Our breath knows nought but east and west.Thus have I heard to childrens criesThe faire nurse still such lullabies,That, well all sayd (for what there lay),The pleasure did the sorrow pay.

Sure ther's another way to saveYour phansie, madam; that's to have('Tis but a petitioning kinde fate)The organs sent to Bilingsgate,Where they to that soft murm'ring quireShall teach you all you can admire!Or do but heare, how love-bang KateIn pantry darke for freage of mate,With edge of steele the square wood shapes,And DIDO to it chaunts or scrapes.The merry Phaeton oth' carreYou'l vow makes a melodious jarre;Sweeter and sweeter whisleth HeTo un-anointed axel-tree;Such swift notes he and 's wheels do run;For me, I yeeld him Phaebus son.Say, faire Comandres, can it beYou should ordaine a mutinie?For where I howle, all accents fall,As kings harangues, to one and all.

Ulisses art is now withstood:You ravish both with sweet and good;Saint Syren, sing, for I dare heare,But when I ope', oh, stop your eare.

Far lesse be't aemulationTo passe me, or in trill or tone,Like the thin throat of Philomel,And the smart lute who should excell,As if her soft cords should begin,And strive for sweetnes with the pin.

Yet can I musick too; but suchAs is beyond all voice or touch;My minde can in faire order chime,Whilst my true heart still beats the time;My soule['s] so full of harmonie,That it with all parts can agree;If you winde up to the highest fret,It shall descend an eight from it,And when you shall vouchsafe to fall,Sixteene above you it shall call,And yet, so dis-assenting one,They both shall meet in unison.

Come then, bright cherubin, begin!My loudest musick is within.Take all notes with your skillfull eyes;Hearke, if mine do not sympathise!Sound all my thoughts, and see exprestThe tablature of my large brest;Then you'l admit, that I too canMusick above dead sounds of man;Such as alone doth blesse the spheres,Not to be reacht with humane eares.