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The doale of disdaine written by a lover disdainfully rejected contrary to former promise.

The deadly dropes of darke disdayne,
Which dayly fall on my deserte,
The lingring sute long spent in vayne,
Wherof I feele no frute but smart:
Enforce me now th[ese] wordes to write:
Not all for love but more for spite.
The which to the I must rehearse,
Whom I dyd honour, serve and trust,
And though the musicke of my verse,
Be plainsong tune both true and just:
Content thee yet to here my song,
For els thou doest me doobble wrong.

459

I must alledge, and thou canst tell
How faithfully I vowed to serve,
And howe thou seemest to like me well:
And how thou saydest I did deserve,
To be thy Lord, thy Knight, thy King.
And how much more I list not sing.
And canst thou now (thou cruell one)
Condemne desert to deepe dispayre?
Is all thy promise past and gone?
Is fayth so fled into the ayre?
If that be so, what rests for me?
But thus in song to saye to thee.
If Cressydes name were not so knowen,
And written wide on every wall:
If brute of pryde were not so blowen,
Upon Angelica withall:
For hault disdayne thou mightst be she,

Angelica refusing the most famous knights in the whole worlde, chose at last Medoro a poore serving man.


Or Cresside for inconstancie.
And in reward of thy desart,
I hope at last to see thee payd:
With deepe repentaunce for thy part,
Which thou hast now so lewedly playd.
Medoro hee must bee thy make,
Since thou Orlando doest for sake.
Such is the fruite that groweth alwaies,
Upon the roote of ripe disdaine:
Such kindly wages Cupide payes,
Where constant hearts cannot remaine,
I hope to see thee in such bandes,
When I may laugh and clappe my handes.
But yet for thee I must protest,
[That] sure the faulte is none of thine,
Thou art as true as is the best,
That ever came of Cressedes lyne:
For constant yet was never none,
But in unconstancie alone.
Meritum peter, grave.