A Small Treatise betwixt Arnalte and Lucenda Entituled The Evill-intreated Lover, Or The Melancholy Knight ::

A Small Treatise betwixt Arnalte and Lucenda Entituled The Evill-intreated Lover, Or The Melancholy Knight

Originally written in the Greeke Tongue, by an unknowne Author. Afterwards Translated into Spanish; after that, for the Excellency thereof, into the French Tongue by N. H. next by B. M. into the Thuscan, and now turn'd into English Verse by L. L. [i.e. Leonard Lawrence] a well-wisher to the Muses

Lawrence, Leonard

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Arnaltes Letter to Lucenda.

Thou matchlesse peece of worth, the Worlds chiefe treasure,
On whose faire fore-head sits a world of pleasure,
Natures sole Darling, and my soules delight;
Fairer than Venus, than the Sunne more bright:
For why thy Beauty doth by farre out-ray
Th'Orient brightnesse of a Sun-shine day:
If that my fortunes so propitious were
To my desires, as you are Phœnix rare;
I'de rather wish that you were certifi'd
Of my pure Love, purer than Gold though try' a',
Or that my Faith and constant Loyalty
Were but perspicuous to your glorious eye,
Then that you should vouchsafe to read my Lines,
Th'Jnterpreters of my inforc't designes:
Had I this favour, (fairest) were it so,
Observing me, you easily might know
The passion that I suffer; which is such,
And so out-raging, vexing me so much,
That 'twould be able freely to obtaine,
That which I hop't by Writing for to gaine:
For by missive you can onely know
My grieving ends, but then my teares would show
The desp'rate state wherein afflicted I,
Doe passe my dayes in endlesse misery.
My heaped griefes would likewise then supply
My failing words, and to you testifie
The truth of that which now your selfe may doubt;
And from your breast, distrust they'd banish out.
For though th'afflictions Fortune hath not spar'd
To let me suffer, cannot be declar'd,
Yet through my paine your Iudgment would conceive
The very truth, the reason why I grieve:

Now since such hap, my hap doth not possesse,
I'le force my Lines my Sorrowes to expresse.
Know, faire Lucenda, since that very day,
Your Honour'd Father was involv'd in clay,
Your more than mortall grace, and my affection
Captiv'd my heart, enthral'd me to subjection.
Your shining living Lampes, whose glorious light
Transcend the Starres, that waite on Cinthia bright,
Directed me at that same present time,
To offer to thy selfe (who seem'd divine)
My life, my service, and I vow'd to be
A faithfull Servant unto honour'd thee:
Whilst thus I gazed at thy most rare beauty,
The Priests had done unto the Corpes their duty,
And your faire selfe did homeward then repaire:
Whence fleeting time did all your Sorrowes beare;
For, for to grieve you found it was in vaine,
Sith your lost Father teares could not regaine:
You being gone, I likewise homeward went,
Where when arriv'd, I inwardly did scent
A strange disturbance, all my spirits quak't,
My vitals trembled, Ague-like I shak't:
My blood ranne boyling in my veines, my heart
Lay panting, throb'd with anxious smart:
And I bewail'd the cruell smarting paine,
Which I doe suffer from that secret flame
Which love hath kindl'd, dazling in your eyes,
Whose radiant beames with torments me surpriz'd.
Sweete I beseech thee credit this; believe,
That for thy selfe I doe both pine and grieve,
For I'me so strongly fetter'd in Loves band,
That nought can free me 'lesse thou lend a hand:
Being as feeble my passions to o're-sway,
As you have force, t'inforce my heart obey:
More o're, I thee assure, that want of power
More than my owne free-will caus'd me yeeld o're
My thralled selfe, and tender to thy shrine
My vowes, my life, and thus vel nil am thine.

Had I the meanes, or were I helpt by might,
Then from thy face I straight would take my flight:
But hyde my will, perforce I am constrained
To looke thee out by whom my heart is pained:
Nor from your beauty (fairest) can I flye,
Where in my thraldome doth my freedome lye:
Forever mee you sway so strong a hand,
And o're my selfe I have so small command,
That if I purpose (Lady) not to love thee,
I am not able, your Graces doe so move mee:
Nor why, alas, my wounded sorrowing heart
Is through thy vertues, my love bearing part:
So firmely knit, and linkt with Loves strong band
To thy sweete selfe, that nought can it dis-band.
Thus let those Lines (sweete Mistris) certifie,
In that I do had the possibility.
Rather than that I would have hop'd in vaine,
For helpe of thee, by whom my heart's nigh slaine
I'de thee have banish'd from my quiet minde,
Nor thee have suffer'd harbour there to finde
But Fate has order't, and I am condemn'd
By Destiny, to be thy truest friend:
Or have I had the meanes to avoid the ill
Of this good hap, which thus remaine must still.
Protract not now thy comfort, but with speede,
Stench thou those wounds that in my heart doe bleed:
Heale mee, for why, I suffer cruell smart
From thy bright eyes, which have transpierc'd my heart:
Deny me not thy gracious favour then,
But by thy smiles glad me 'bove other men:
For by the greatnesse of my suff'ring paine,
I doe deserve these favours to obtaine;
And since in so few dayes thy Sunne-like eyes
Have out-ray'd me in a most cruell wise:
Consider in what an Obligation you
Are reduable, and to me 'tis due:
Since I had rather lose my selfe for thee,
Than to be sav'd, unlesse thy meanes it be:

And sith thou art the cause of my torment,
The paine is pleasing, and gives me content,
And my destruction, for thy sake doe I,
Though with great losse, esteeme it victory.
Then sweete assist me, let me not despaire,
Cherish th'affection, which to thee I beare:
Although ay yet no recompence I crave,
For I doe hope, when you shall knowledge have
Of the estate, wherein I loving live,
That then your notice will you freedome give
To loose the reines to reason, which you'le find
Not to be absent, gracing of your mind:
And whereas reason's present, there'l not want
A large reward, for it will kindnesse grant:
Now with this hope I straight waies will expell
Vnquiet thoughts; dispaire shall never dwell
Within my breast; but since dispos'd I am,
Rather to suffer my afflicting paine,
Than to petition, or to intercede
For thy assistance, I will cease to plead
To gaine thy favour, 'cause Ile give an end
To this my missive, which I now doe send:
Onely vouchsafe my teare-drown'd face to see,
That of my griefes it may a testate be:
For why, deare love, a lovers pleading eyes
May more expresse, than Letters can comprize.

University of Virginia Library

Arnaltes Letter to Lucenda.