LVI

I sing to you , who love alone for Love:
For Gold the beauteous Fools (O Fools besure!)
Can win; tho' brighter Wit shall never move:
But Folly is to Wit the certain Cure.
Curs'd be the Men, (or be they young or old)
Curs'd be the Women, who themselves have sold
To the detested Bed for Lucre base of Gold .

LVII.

Not Julia such: she higher Honour deem'd
To languish in the Sulmo-Poet 's Arms,
Than, by the Potentates of Earth esteem'd,
To give to Scepters and to Crowns her Charms,
Not Laura such: in sweet Vauclusa 's Vale
She list'ned to her Petrarch 's amorous Tale.
But did poor Colin Clout o'er Rosalind prevail?

LVIII.

Howe'er that be; in Acidalian Shade,
Embracing Julia, Ovid melts the Day:
No Dreams of Banishment his Loves invade;
Encircled in Eternity of May .
Here Petrarch with his Laura , soft reclin'd
On Violets, gives Sorrow to the Wind:
And Colin Clout pipes to the yielding Rosalind .

LIX.

Pipe on, thou sweetest of the th' Arcadian-Train,
That e'er with tuneful Breath inform'd the Quill:
Pipe on, of Lovers the most loving Swain!
Of Bliss and Melody O take thy Fill.
Ne envy I, if dear Ianthe smile,
Tho' low my Numbers, and tho' rude my Stile;
Ne quit for Acidale , fair Albion 's happy Isle.

LX.

Come then, Ianthe! milder than the Spring,
And grateful as the rosy Mouth of May ,
O come; the Birds the Hymn of Nature sing,
Inchanting-wild, from every Bush and Spray:
Swell the green Gemms and teem along the Vine,
A fragrant Promise of the future Wine,
The Spirits to exalt, the Genius to resine!