_Polidamus_ to bid,
The Drums & Trumpets sound that daies retreit,
For in his soule their ratling noyse he chid:
For startling _Cupid_, whose soft bosome streight,
Had lodg'd him, & grew proud of such a freight.
Beside the sword and fire had swept the streetes,
And all did in the victors hands abide,
Night likewise came, fit time for Loues stolne-sweets.

26

Thus tumbling in conceits, he stumbled home,
In the darke couerture of shady night,
Cal'd for a torch, the which his chamber groome,
With more then speedy haste did present light:
To bed he went, as heauy in his spright,
As loue, that's full of anguish makes the minde:
Faine would he sleepe away this martirdome,
But loues eyes open, when all else are blinde.

27

What do you talke of sleepe? talke of the _Greeke_,
For being laid, he now grew almost mad,
What is she not as faire (quoth he) to like,
As _Phedria_, whom in _Corinth_ once I had?
With that he knock't his Eunuchs vp, and bad,
One aske the _Grecian_ maide, what was her name,
What she made there, & whom she came to see,
And to what end into his Tent she came?

28

When he was gone, somewhat the fury staid,
And beat more temperate in his liuer-vaine,
Onely he could not choose but praise the maid,
Whose eies fr[=o] his such _womanish_ drops did strain
Did not thy face (sigh'd he) such faires containe,
It could not be, my heart thou couldst distract,
But all abstracts of rarities are laid,
In thy faire cheekes so feelingly compact.

29

Thus made, what maiest thou not command,
In mighty _Amuraths_ wide Empery?
My tributary loue, and not my land,
Shall pay it homage to thy proud bent eye,
And they who most abhorre idolatry,
Shall tender Catholicke conceites to thee,
O arme not honor still for to withstand,
And make a foyle of loue, which dwels in me.

30

By this time was the Carpet-page returned,
And told the prince the _Greeke_ was _Hiren_ hight,
But so she wept, & sigh'd, & grieu'd, & mourn'd,
As I could get no more (said he to night,
And weeps (said _Amurath_) my loue so bright,
Hence villaine, borrow wings, flie like the winde,
Her beauteous cheeks with hot tears wil be burnd
Fetch her to me: o loue too deafe, too blinde!

31

Then crossing both his arm