English

The Device of a Gentlewoman to persuade her lover of her constancie, notwithstanding her show of hate, which shee onely used to quench the jelous suspicion of her friendes.

Sith fortune threates to woorke our wreake of joy,
By sowsing of our ship in feas of yre;
Sith sullen thoughtes doth so our friends accoy,
As wayward will still wresteth our desire;

I see no meanes more meete for our behove,
Then saile to strike till stormes be past and gone:
Our lookes must hate although our heart do love.

The complaint of two lovers, restrained from their wished desires by the displeasure of their friendes.

We lucklesse wightes in thraldome lincked still,
May sit and singe our layes of deepe lament,
Whose wayward friendes, accoyde in sullen will,
Both stirre and strive to sunder our consent;
And yet (God wot) their wreasting is in vaine:
One will serves both in pleasure and in paine.

Have they desire wee should bee shrinde in clay,
By sundring us that loves each other so?
Will they not know, Love doth no lawe obey ,

Dom Diego his triumphe.

Who can report that never tasted bale
What difference is tweene sorrow and delite?
And who may tell a more triumphant tale
Then hee in joy that late was kept in spite?
I am the man; in mone there was none such:
My mone is past, my mirth must be as much.

Sith so alone I rule in throne of joy,
Of pleasures mount I weald the golden mace,
Then leave to bragge, you princes proud of Troy,
Your brayd delights by mee can have no place;
Once beautes blisse to vaunt doth make you bould,

Dom Diego, a Spaniard, falling in love with faire Genevora, was, in the prime of his fancies, with like love by Genevora friendly acquainted. Afterwards Genevora (else where fancying) had Dom Diego in such disdaine, as still she crost both his suite and service with scorne.

Even with the bloud that issues from his hart,
Rinaldo (wretch) this sorrie boune doth crave;
There may be graven (by some continuing arte)
These woful words upon his timelesse grave:
Loe! here he lies that reaped hate for love,
Which hard exchaunge to slea him selfe did move.

For faithfull love, the hate I finde in lue,
My vowe performde, the false of her behest,
The small rewarde I reape for service true,
Her joy to see mee plunged in unrest,
Doth force mee say, to finde an ende of paine,
O, fancie die, thou seedest hope in vaine!

I sue for grace, shee smyles to see my smart,
I pleade for peace, shee seekes to sowe debate,
My sowre her sweete, my griefe doth glad her hart,
I fawne, shee frownes, I love, and shee doth hate:
Sith soe, I say, to finde an ende of paine,

Beautie, leave off to brag, thy bravery is but brayd:
Thou mayst (God wot) thy visard vaile, thy wanton maskes are wrayd.
Thy toyes in thy attire, thy plumes forsells thy pride,
Thy coynes, thy caules, thy curling cost, thy surfling helpes are spide.
Thy gases are for guestes that garish showes wil eye,
Else who so blinde but that he can a painted visage spie;
Then goe, and market keepe where chasse is sowld for corne.
I hould (God wot) thy vauntes as vaine; thy lures and love I scorne:
For I beloved am of one that thee doth passe

In bondage free I live, yet free am fettered faste;
In pleasure paine, in paine I find a thousand pleasures plaste:
I frye, yet frosen am, I freese amid the fire;
I have my wish, and want my will, yet both as I desire.
I love and live by lokes, and loking workes my woe:
Were love no god, this life were strange, but as he is, not so;
For through his awkward fitts, I suck such sweete in sower,
As I a yeare of dole would bide, to have one lightning hower.
I like no life, but such as worketh with his will,

When sommers force is past, and winter sets in foote,
The hart and strength of hearbs and trees is nourisht by the roote.
The frostes and froward blasts doth nip the naked spray,
The sommer liverie of the bowes with colde is worne away;
Yet lives such rootes in hope that Phaebus glimering beames
Will once dissolve syr Hiems force, his frostes and ysie streames,
And lend reliefe at length, when he their lacke should see,
With coates of leaves to cloth their armes, fit garments for a tree.
Even so both hope and dread doth wage continuall fight,

The pyning wight, presented with reliefe,
With souden joy awhile forgoes his sense;
The retchlesse youth, likewise, besiegde with griefe,
With feare dismayd, forgets to use defence:
Such is the force of hastie joy or woe,
As for the time few knoweth what they doe.

And I unwares, with both extremes forgone,
Subject to love, that never felt his force,
One while dismayd, I starvde in wretched mone,
And straight through hope, I tasted sweet remorse:
Soust with these stormes, when I shuld mone my suit,