English

The lover, neither greatly favoured nor openly refused, compareth the wretchednesse of his estate unto the paines of hell

Full fearefull is the talke of Tantals griese,
Who hunger sterves in seas of deintre fare,
Which falles to eb when he should find reliefe,
And flowes againe, his hope with woes to ware:
And how in vaine poore Sisyphus doth mone,
To mountaine top who stil doth roll the stone.

And reaching thus the point of all his paine,
For joy he leapes, downe falles his fruites of toyle:

The absent lover, in pawne of his constancie, sendeth his heart to his Ladie.

Receive, deare dame, as gage of worthy love,
This pyned hart, bepoudred all with teares,
Whose poesie is, No fate my faith can move:
A rare accorde, in prime of roving yeres.
When fancie sets a thousand thoughts on fire,
When faith is choakt with smoke of filthie change,
When folly fumes, when flameth fond desire,
When raging lust beyond his bounds doth range,
When every bayte beguileth brainsicke youth,
When newe found love the olde exileth still,

The hap and hard fortune of a carelesse lover.

My hart on hoyh, with carelesse mind I raunging freedoms fielde,
Blind Cupide, by arest unwares, to Beautie bad me yeald:
What! yeald (quoth I) at Beauties becke, as Venus slave to serve?
May he whome freedome alwayes fed by bondage stoupe to sterve?

No, Cupide, no; with me go tell, dame Beautie beares no sway,
Nor pleasure with her painted sheath can make me Cupide pray.
This answere made, with winged feete he tooke his flight away,

The thought of wonted joyes doubleth the miserable mans griefe.

I that whose youth was lul'd in pleasures lap,
Whose wanton yeres were never chargd with care;
Who made no flight, but reacht the pitch of hap,
And now besieg'd with griefe at unawares;
How can my hart but bleede to thinke on this?
My joy with was , my woe is joyned with is .

With is? (Oh, yea!) and ever wil be so
Such hell is thought to muse on joyes forgone;
For though content would faine appease my woe,
This myrthlesse note continues fresh my mone.

The lover, wearied with a number of delayes, sues unto his Ladie for pitie, or otherwise her speedie denyall, by death to worke a speedie dispatch of his languishing dayes.

If pitie may prevaile to pearse your hart with ruth,
Sweete maisters, lend your liftning eare to heare your servants truth,
Whose faith hath chose you judge, and jurie if you please;
If not, desart shal trye this cause your deintie mynd to ease.
The whole record is writ for rasing with my teares,
My witnesse is my withered corps, ny famished with feares:

A Sonet, wherin is showne the straunge effectes of love.

In care I joy, my mirth is mov'd by mone,
With flouds of want I weare to ebbe my wo;
Appayd I rest in restlesse griefe to grone,
By fainting hope my friendly hap doth growe:
In waves of bale I bathe in wished blisse,
My wealth in woe, in paine my pleasure is.

But how these hang, if so she search my harme,
These fewe suffice the same to shew (my sweete):
To rayse her joy my selfe I wholy arme,
To freese or fry as she shall deeme it meete,

The Lover attributeth his curelesse wound to chaunce, by loving long.

Long have I lost my libertie,
Alas! through love (long) have I so.
(Long) have I stoode in jeopardie.
In loving (long) through pyning woe,
Whose constant truth long hath ben tryde,
Though (long) his suit hath ben denyde.

My batterie (long) the brasen wall
The cannon shot doth cleane deface,
The longest trees in time doe fall,
Which (long) before bad Boreas base:
The little brooke in running (long)
Doth turne into a river strong.

The pitious complaint of Medea, forsaken of Jason, lively bewraying the slipperie hold in sugred words.

Amid the desart woods I rue and shew my fate,
Exild (O wretch!) from courtly joyes, berest of princes state.
O love! from whence these plagues proceede,
For service true is this thy meede?

What vaileth now my skil, or sight in magicks lore?
May charmed hearbs suffice to help, or cure my festred sore?
A salve I shapt for others smart,

A Gentlewoman, falsely deceived with faire wordes, forsweareth hereafter to be wonne with flattering promises

Give me my worke that I may sit and sowe.
And so escape the traines of trustlesse men,
I finde too true, by witnesse of my woe,
How that faire wordes with faithles works they blen;
Much Syren like, with sweete inticing call,
We sillie dames to witch, and wray in thrall.

O cruell friend! whose false of faith I rue,
Thou forcest me to count all men unjust,
For if that vow or othe might make one true,

The rejected lover, with earnest desire, pursues the sight of his disdainfull mystresse.

The dampe of dole hath chooked my delight,
Sharpe frumpes, as frostes, doth nip my silly joy,
My glymering grace is darkned with despight,
Yea, sullen thoughtes my sovereigne so accoy.
As mistes of scorne still falleth on my faith,
My cleare conceiptes are clowded oore with care,
And yet my heart, aye me! no power hath
To shunne the storme that sheweth all this scare.
O straunge effectes of blinde affected love,