Epitaphes, epigrams, songs and sonets with a discourse of the friendly affections of Tymetes to Pyndara his ladie. Newly corrected with additions, and set out by George Turbervile Gentleman.

Of Ladie Venus, that hauing lost hir Sonne Cupid God of Loue, and desirous to vn∣derstand of him againe, declares by the way the nature of Loue and affections of the same, by pretie discription as followeth.

WHat time the Ladie Venus sought hir little Sonne That Cupid hight, & found him not, she thus begonne My friends (quoth she) if any chaunce in open streete Or crossing pathes, y^t wandring amorous Elfe to meete, That Runnagate (I say) is mine: who so by hap Shall first bring tidings of the Boy, in Venus lap Is sure to sit, and haue in price of taken paine. A sugred kisse. But he that brings him home againe, A busse? yea not a busse alone doubtlesse shall haue But like a Friend I will entreate him passing braue. I tell you tis a proper youth. Marke euery Lun And member of my straid Sonne that is so trim. Not sallow white his bodie is, but like to flame, A fierce and fierie roling eie sets out the same. A mischieuous wylie hart in Breast the Boy doth beare, But yet his wordes are Honnie like and sweete to eare. His talking tongue and meaning minde asunder goe. Smooth filed stile for little cost he will bestowe. But being once inflamde with ire and raging wrath, A cruell canckred dogged hart the Vrchin hath. False Foxely subtile Boy, and glosing lying Lad, He sports to outward sight, but inward chafes like mad. A curled Sconce he hath, with angrie frowning browe. A little hand, yet Dart a cruell way can throwe. To shadie A cheron sometime he flings the same, And deepest damp of hollow Hell those Impes to tame. Vpon his Carkasse not a cloth, but naked hee Of garments goes, his minde is wrapt, and not to see.

Much like a fethred Foule he flies, & wags his wings Now here now there: y^e man somtime this Miser wrings Sometimes againe the Lasse to loue he doth enforce, Of neither kind, nor man nor maid, he hath remorce: A little Bow the Boy doth beare in tender hande, And in the same an Arrow nockt to string doth stand. A slender Shaft, yet such a one as farre will flie, And being shot from Cupids Bow will reach the Skie. A pretie golden Quiuer hangs there albehinde Vpon his back, wherein who so doth looke, shall finde A sort of sharpe and lurching shafts, vnhappie Boy Wherewith his Ladie Mother eke he doth annoy Sometimes: but most of all the foolish fretting Elfe In cruell wife doth cruelly torment and vex himselfe. Doe beate the Boy and spare him not at all, if thou On him doe chaunce to light: although frō childish brow And moysted eies the trickling teares like flouds distill, Beleeue him not, for chiefly then beguile he will. Not if he smile vnlose his pyniond armes take heede, With pleasāt home words though he thine eares dos feede And craue a kisse, beware thou kisse him not at all: For in his lips vile venom lurcks, and bitter Gall. Or if with friendly face he seeme to yeelde his Bow And shafts to thee, his proferde gifts (my Friend) forgo Touch not with tender hand the subtile flattring Dart Of Loue, for feare the fire thereof doe make thee smart.

Where this that I haue sayde be true, Yee Louers I appeale to you. For ye doe knowe Cupidos toyes, Yee feele his smarts, yee taste his ioyes. A fickle foolish God to serue, I tearme him as he doth deserue.