The Argvment.
That there's no cause, from Cupids lawes
Why Chloë free should sit;
For Hymens rites, and sweet delights,
Since shee's already fit.

Thou shunn'st me, Chloë; like the Fawn
Missing her mother in the Lawn,
That trips to th'hills, in feare
Of every blast and breare.
For, whether windes amongst leaves rustle,
Or Lizards in the brambles bustle,
Shee trembles at the hart,
And quakes in every part.
I come not Tiger-like to ill thee,
Or as a Lion fierce to kill thee:
Still follow not thy mother,
Now fitter for another.