thy boy-like brags I heare: When thou hast wounded many a man, (40) as Hunts-man doth the Deare. Becomes it thee to triumph so? thy Mother wills it not: For she had rather breake thy bowe, then thou shouldst play the sot. (45) What saucie merchant speaketh now, sayd Venus in her rage: Art thou so blinde thou knowest not how I gouerne euery age? My Sonne doth shoote no shaft in wast, (50) to me the Boy is bound: He neuer found a hart so chast, but he had power to wound, Not so faire Goddesse (quoth Free-will, ) in me there is a choise: (55) And cause I am of mine owne ill, if I in thee reioyce. And when I yeeld my selfe a slaue, to thee, or to thy Sonne: Such recompence I ought not haue, (60) if things be rightly done. Why foole, stept forth Delight, and said, when thou art conquer’d thus: Then loe dame Lust, that wanton maide, thy Mistresse is iwus. (65) And Lust is Cupids darling deere, behold her where she goes: She creepes the milk-warme flesh so neere, she hides her vnder close.