by Robert Greene
He that appal'd with lust would sail in
haste to Corinthum,
There to be taught in Lais' school to seek
for a mistress,
Is to be train'd in Venus' troop and
chang'd to the purpose;
Rage embrac'd, but reason quite thrust out
as an exile;
Pleasure a pain, rest, turn'd to be
care, and mirth as a madness;
Fiery minds inflam'd with a look, enrag'd
as Alecto;
Quaint in array, sighs fetch'd from far,
and tears, marry, feigned;
Pensive, sore, deep-plung'd in pain,
not a place but his heart whole;
Days in grief and nights consum'd to think
on a goddess;
Broken sleeps, sweet dreams, but short,
from the night to the morning;
Venus dash'd, his mistress' face as bright as
Apollo;
Helena stain'd, the golden ball wrong-given
by the shepherd;
Hairs of gold, eyes twinkling stars, her
lips to be rubies;
Teeth of pearl, her breasts like snow,
her cheeks to be roses;
Sugar-candy she is, as I guess, from the
waist to the kneestead;
Nought is amiss, no fault were found,
if soul were amended;
All were bliss if such fond lust led
not to repentance.
Last updated September 24, 2017