Alba. The Months Minde of a Melancholy Lover, diuided into three parts By R. T. Gentleman [i.e. Robert Tofte]. Herevnto is Added a most excellent pathetical and passionate Letter, sent by Duke D'Epernoun, vnto the late French King, Henry the 3. of that name, when he was commanded from the Court, and from his Royall Companie. Translated into English by the foresaid Author |
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 | Alba. The Months Minde of a Melancholy Lover, diuided into three parts |  |
An Answer.
Bound
by Desert, (thy Merits, but not mine)
A Stranger thou, how shall I make amends?
That of thy friendship, such assured signe
(To me scant knowne) such louing Verses sends?
Thanks giue I; that's a yonger Brothers reward,
Nought els I haue, my Fortune is so hard.
A Stranger thou, how shall I make amends?
That of thy friendship, such assured signe
(To me scant knowne) such louing Verses sends?
Thanks giue I; that's a yonger Brothers reward,
Nought els I haue, my Fortune is so hard.
My worthles lines th' hast red, (as thou dost write)
But (partiall thou) too much the same dost praise,
To sing still kindly thou dost me inuite,
My Glorie (but indeed my Shame) to blaze.
Alas I cannot; dead is that sweet Fire,
Which did enflame in me such chast Desire.
But (partiall thou) too much the same dost praise,
To sing still kindly thou dost me inuite,
My Glorie (but indeed my Shame) to blaze.
Alas I cannot; dead is that sweet Fire,
Which did enflame in me such chast Desire.
Then boldly sang I, when those louely Eyes
Were guides to me: but now that they are gone,
Now that my Sunne shines not in cheerfull wise,
Nor my Fire heates me, I will weep and mone.
I, weep, (saith Cruell Alba) weep thy fill,
For neuer more I see or loue thee will.
Were guides to me: but now that they are gone,
Now that my Sunne shines not in cheerfull wise,
Nor my Fire heates me, I will weep and mone.
I, weep, (saith Cruell Alba) weep thy fill,
For neuer more I see or loue thee will.
But thou that constant art in thy vowde Loue,
And (as Belou'd) thy Ladies loue dost gaine
With thy sweet Stile, and my sad Plaints remove,
Each Readers harts seeke thou in amorous vaine;
In secret still Ile sorrow like the Dove,
And when my Sunne shall shine, then will I move.
And (as Belou'd) thy Ladies loue dost gaine
With thy sweet Stile, and my sad Plaints remove,
Each Readers harts seeke thou in amorous vaine;
In secret still Ile sorrow like the Dove,
And when my Sunne shall shine, then will I move.
R. T.
| Alba. The Months Minde of a Melancholy Lover, diuided into three parts | |