Beautie without Love deformitie
Thou art not fayer for all thy red and white,
For all those Rosye temperatures in thee;
Thou art not sweet, though made of meere delight,
Nor fayer nor sweet unlesse thou pittie mee.
Thyne eyes are blacke and yet their glittering brightnes
Can night enlumine in her darkest den;
Thy hands are bloudy thoughts contriv'd of whitnes,
Both blacke and blooddy if they murder men.
Thy browe wheron my good happe doth depend
Fayerer then snow or lyllie in the springe,

Dolus
Thou shalt not love mee, neither shall these eyes
Shine on my soule shrowded in deadly night.
Thou shalt not breath on me thy spiceryes
Nor rocke mee in the quavers of delight.
Hould of thy hands, for I had rather dye
Then have my life by thy coye touch reprived.
Smile not on me, but frowne thou bitterly;
Slaye me out right: no lovers are long liv'de.
As for those lippes reserv'd so much in store,
Their rosy verdure shall not meete with myne.
Withhould thy proude embracements evermore,

XIX.
Kinde in unkindnesse, when will you relent
And cease with faint love true love to torment?
Still entertain'd, excluded still I stand,
Her glove stil holde, but cannot touch the hand.

In her faire hand my hopes and comforts rest:
O might my fortunes with that hand be blest,
No envious breaths then my deserts could shake,
For they are good whom such true love doth make.

O let not beautie so forget her birth
That it should fruitles home returne to earth:
Love is the fruite of beautie, then love one;

XIV.
Shall then a traiterous kis or a smile
All my delights unhappily beguile?
Shall the vow of fayned love receive so ritch regard,
When true service dies neglected, and wants his due reward?

Deedes meritorious soone be forgot,
But one offence no time can ever blot;
Every day it is renu'd, and every night it bleedes,
And with bloudy streames of sorrow drownes all our better deedes.

XIII.
Aye me, that love should natures workes accuse!
Where cruell Laura still her beautie viewes,
River, or cloudie jet, or christall bright,
Are all but servants of her selfe-delight.

Yet her deformed thoughts she cannot see,
And thats the cause she is so sterne to mee.
Vertue and duetie can no favour gaine:
O griefe, a death, to live and love in vaine!

VII.
Reprove not love, though fondly thou hast lost
Greater hopes by loving:
Love calms ambicious spirits, from their brests
Danger oft removing:
Let lofty humors mount up on high,
Down againe like to the wind,
While privat thoughts, vow'd to love,
More peace and pleasure find.

Love and sweete beautie makes the stubborne milde,
And the coward fearelesse,

What meanes this folly, now to brave it so,
And then to use submission?
Is that a friend that straight can play the foe?
Who loves on such condition?

Though Bryers breede Roses, none the Bryer affect,
But with the flowre are pleased.
Love onely loves delight and soft respect:
He must not be diseased.

These thorny passions spring from barren breasts,
Or such as neede much weeding.
Love onely loves delight and soft respect;
But sends them not home bleeding.

Command thy humour, strive to give content,

Now let her change and spare not;
Since she proves strange I care not:
Fain'd love charm'd so my delight
That still I doted on her sight.
But she is gone, new joies imbracing
And my desires disgracing.

When did I erre in blindnesse?
Or vexe her with unkindnesse?
If my cares serv'd her alone,
Why is shee thus untimely gone?
True love abides to th' houre of dying;
False love is ever flying.

False, then farewell for ever:
Once false proves faithfull never.
Hee that boasts now of thy love

XV.
So many loves have I neglected
Whose good parts might move mee,
That now I live of all rejected,
There is none will love me.
Why is mayden heate so coy?
It freezeth when it burneth,
Looseth what it might injoy,
And, having lost it, mourneth.

Should I then wooe, that have been wooed,

VI.
Faine would I my love disclose,
Aske what honour might denye;
But both love and her I lose,
From my motion if shee flye.
Worse then paine is feare to mee:
Then hold in fancy, though it burne;
If not happy, safe Ile be,
And to my clostred cares returne.

Yet, o yet, in vaine I strive
To represse my school'd desire;
More and more the flames revive,
I consume in mine owne fire.
She would pitty, might shee know
The harmes that I for her endure: