 | A Margarite of America |  |
[I smile to see the toies]
I smile to see the toies,
Which I in silent see,
The hopes, the secret ioyes,
Expected are from me:
The vowes, the sighes, the teares, are lost in vaine,
By silly loue through sorrow welnie slaine.
Which I in silent see,
The hopes, the secret ioyes,
Expected are from me:
The vowes, the sighes, the teares, are lost in vaine,
By silly loue through sorrow welnie slaine.
The colour goes and comes,
The face, now pale, now red,
Now feare the heart benomes,
And hope growes almost dead.
And I looke on and laugh, tho sad I seeme,
And faine to fawne altho my minde misdeeme.
The face, now pale, now red,
Now feare the heart benomes,
And hope growes almost dead.
And I looke on and laugh, tho sad I seeme,
And faine to fawne altho my minde misdeeme.
I let the flie disport,
About the burning light,
And feede her with resort,
And baite her with delight.
But When the flames hath seasd her winges (adew)
Away will I, and seeke for pleasures new.
About the burning light,
And feede her with resort,
And baite her with delight.
But When the flames hath seasd her winges (adew)
Away will I, and seeke for pleasures new.
Smile not, they are no toyes,
Which you in silent see,
Nor hopes, nor secret ioyes,
Which you beholde in mee:
But those my vowes, sighes, teares, are serious seales,
Whereby my heart his inward griefe reueales.
Which you in silent see,
Nor hopes, nor secret ioyes,
Which you beholde in mee:
But those my vowes, sighes, teares, are serious seales,
Whereby my heart his inward griefe reueales.
My colour goes and comes,
My face is pale and red,
And feare my heart benomes,
And hope is almost dead:
And why? to see thee laugh at my desart
So faire a man, and yet so false a heart.
My face is pale and red,
And feare my heart benomes,
And hope is almost dead:
And why? to see thee laugh at my desart
So faire a man, and yet so false a heart.
Well, let the flie disport,
And turne her in the light:
And as thou dost report,
Still baite her with dispite:
Yet be thou sure, when thou hast slaine the furst,
Thou fliest away (perhaps) to find the worst.
And turne her in the light:
And as thou dost report,
Still baite her with dispite:
Yet be thou sure, when thou hast slaine the furst,
Thou fliest away (perhaps) to find the worst.
| A Margarite of America | |