University of Virginia Library

[Come Dorus come, Let Songes thy sorrowes signify]

Lalus.
Come Dorus come, Let Songes thy sorrowes signify,
And, yf for want of use thy mynde ashamed ys,
That very shame, with Loves hye tytle Dignify:
No style ys helde for base, where Love well named ys.
Eche eare suckes up the wordes a true Love scattereth,
And playne speeche ofte, then quaynte phrase better framed ys.

Dorus.
Nightingales sildome singe, the Pye still chattereth,
The wood cryes moste, before yt throwly kindled bee,
Deadly woundes inward bleede, eche sleight sore mattereth:
Hardly they hearde, wch by good Hunters singled bee,
Shallow brookes murmer moste, Depe sylent slyde away,
Nor true Love Loves, his Loves with others mingled bee.

Lalus.
Yf thow wilt not bee seene, thy face goo hyde away,
Bee none of us, or else meynteyne oure fashyon,
Who frownes at others feastes, dothe better byde away,
But yf thow haste a Love in that Loves passyon
I Challenge thee by shewe of her perfection
Whiche of us Twoo deserveth moste Compassyon.

Dorus.
Thy Chalenge greate, but greater my protection,
Singe then, and see, for now thow haste enflamed mee,
Thy healthe to meane a Matche for my infection,
No though the Heavens for highe Attempt have blamed mee
Yet, highe ys myne Attempt (O Muse) historify
Her prayse, whose prayse to learne, youre skill hathe framed mee.

Lalus.
Muse, holde youre peace, but thow my God Pan glorify,
My Kalas giftes, who with all good giftes filled ys.
Thy Pype (O Pan) shall help, thoughe I singe sorily,
A heape of sweetes shee ys where no thing spilled ys;
Who, thoughe shee bee no Bee, yet full of hony ys
A Litle feelde, with plowe of Rose wch tilled ys.

idem.
Mylde as a Lambe, more deynty than a Cony ys,
Her eyes my eye sighte ys, her Conversacyon,
More glad to mee, then to a Myser mony ys:
What Coy accoumpte shee makes of estimacyon,
Howe nice to tuche, how all her speeches peized bee,
A Nimphe thus turned, but mended in translation.

Dorus.
Suche Kala ys, but, Ah, my fancyes raysed bee,
In one whose name, to name were highe presumption,
Synce vertues all to make her Tytle pleased bee,
O happy goddes, wch by Inward assumption;
Enjoy her sowle, in bodyes fayre possession,
And keepe yt joyned fearing youre Seates consumption.

idem.
Howe ofte with rayne of teares, Skyes make Confession,
Theyre Duellers rapt with sighte of her perfection,
From heavenly throane to her heaven use digression:
Of best thinges then, what worlde can yeelde confection,
To licken her, deck youres with youre Comparyson
She ys herself of best thinges the Collection.

Lalus.
Howe ofte my Dolefull Sire, cryed to mee, tarry, sonne,
(When firste hee spyde my Love) howe ofte hee saide to mee,
Thow arte no Souldyer fitt for Cupides guarryson,
My sonne keepe this, that my long toyle hathe layde to mee,
Love well thyne owne (mee thincke) wolles whitenes passeth all.
I never founde longe Love, suche wealthe hathe payde to mee,

idem.
This wynde, hee spent, but when my Kala glasseth all
My sighte, in her faire Lym̄es, I then assure my self,
Not rotten sheepe, but hye Crownes, shee surpasseth all,
Can I bee pore, that her golde hayer procure my self.
Want I white woolle, whose eyes her white skinne garnished?
Till I gett her, shall I to keepe enure my self?

Dorus.
Howe ofte when reason sawe Love of her harnished,
With Armor of my harte hee cryed, O, vanitye?
To sett a Perle in steele, so meanely varnished?
Looke to thy self, reache not beyonde humanity?
Her mynde, beames, state, farr from thy weyke winges banished
And Love whiche Lover hurtes ys inhumanity.

idem.
Thus reason sayde, but shee came, reason vanished,
Her eyes so mastering mee, that suche objection
Seemde but to spoyle the foode of thought longe famished;
Her pereles heighte, my mynde to hye erection,
Drawes up, and yf (hope fayling) ende lyves pleasure,
Of fayrer Deathe how can I make election.

Lalus.
Once my well wayting eyes espyed my treasure
With sleeves turnde up, loose hayer, and brestes enlarged,
Her Fathers Corne mooving, her fayres Lym̄es measure,
O (Cryed I) of so meane worcke bee discharged?
Measure my Case, how by thy Beutyes fillinge
With seede of woes, my harte brym̄full ys charged.

idem.
Thy Father biddes thee save, and Chydes for spilling,
Save then my sowle, spill not my thoughtes well heaped,
No Lovely prayse was ever gott by killinge,
These bolde wordes shee did heare, this fruite I reaped,
That shee whose Looke alone mighte make mee blessed
Did smyle on mee, and then away shee leaped.

Dorus.
O sweete, once, I sawe with Drede oppressed,
Her whome I Drede, so that, with prostrate lying,
Her Lengthe the earthe in Loves cheef Clothing dressed,
I sawe that Riches falle, and fell a Cryinge,
Lett not deade Earthe enjoy so deare a Cover,
But Deck there with my sowle, for youre sake dyinge.

Idem.
Lay all youre feare uppon youre Fearefull Lover;
Shyne eyes on mee, that bothe oure Lyves bee guarded;
So I youre sighte, yow shall youre selves recover,
I cryed, and was with open Rayes, rewarded,
But, streight they fledd, summond' by crewell honor,
Honor, the Cause, Desert ys not regarded.

Lalus.
This Mayde thus made for joyes, (O Pan) bemone her,
That withoute Love, shee spendes her yeares of Love,
So fayre a feelde woulde well become an Owner,
And yf enchauntement can a hard harte moove,
Teache mee what Circle can acquaynte her spirite
Affections charmes in my behalf to proove.
The Circle ys my (Rounde aboute her) sighte
The power I will Invoke dwelles in her eyes
My Charme shoulde bee, shee haunte mee day and nighte.

Dorus.
Farr other Case, (O Muse) my sorrowe tryes,
Bent to suche one in whome my self must saye,
No thing can mende one poynte, that in her lyes:
What Circle then in so rare force beares sway,
Whose spirit all Spirites can spoyle, rayse, dampne or save,
No Charme holdes her, but well possess shee may
Possess shee dothe and makes my sowle her Slave,
My eyes the bandes, my thoughtes the fatall knott,
No thralles like them, that Inwarde bondage have.

Lalus.
Kala, at lengthe conclude my Lingering Lott,
Disdayne mee not, allthoughe I bee not fayre,
Who ys an heyre, of many hundred sheepe
Dothe beutyes kepe, whiche never sone can burne,
Nor stormes do turne, fayrenes serves ofte to wealthe.
Yet, all my healthe, I place in youre good will.

idem.
Whiche, yf yow will, (O Doo) bestowe on mee,
Suche as yow see, suche still yow shall mee fynde,
Constant, and kynde, my sheepe youre foode shall breede,
Theyre woolle youre weede, I will yow musick yeelde,
In flowery fielde, and as the day beginnes,
With Twenty ginnes, wee will the smalle Byrdes take,
And pastymes make, as Nature thinges hathe made,
But when in shade, wee meete of Mirtle bowes,
Then Love allowes, Oure pleasures to enriche,
The thoughte of whiche, dothe pass all worldly pelf.

Dorus.
Lady youre self, whome neyther name I dare,
And tytles are, but spottes to suche a worthe,
Her playntes come forthe, from Dongeon of my mynde,
The Noblest kynde, rejectes not others woes,
I have no shewes of welthe, my Wealthe ys yow,
My Beutyes hew, youre beames, my healthe youre Deedes,
My mynde for weedes, youre vertuous Livery weares,
My foode ys teares, my Tunes Weymenting yeelde.

Idem.
Dispayre my feelde, the flowers, Spirittes, Warres
My day newe Cares, my ginnes my daily sighte,
In whiche do lighte, smalle Byrdes of thoughtes overthrown
My Pastymes none, Tyme passeth on my falle,
Nature made all, But mee of Doloures made
I fynde no shade, But where my sunne dothe burne,
No place to turne, Withowte, Within yt fryes,
Nor help by lyfe, or Deathe who living dyes.

Lalus.
But yf my Kala, this my suite denyes,
Whiche so muche reason beares:
Let Crowes pick owte myne eyes,
Whiche to muche sawe,
Yf shee still hate loves Lawe, my earthy moulde dothe melt in watery teares.

Dorus.
My earthy moulde do melt in watery teares,
And they ageane resolve, to ayer of sighes,
Sighes to the hartes fyer turne, wch dothe to Asshes burne,
Thus dothe my lyfe within yt self dissolve.

Lalus.
Thus dothe my Lyfe within yt self Dissolve,
That I growe like the Beaste,
Whiche beares the Bitt:
A weyker force dothe guyde:
Yet pacyence must abyde.
Suche weight yt hathe, whiche once ys full possest.

Dorus.
Suche weighte yt hathe, whiche once ys full possest,
That I became a Vision,
Whiche hathe in others hed his onely beeyng,
And lives in Francyes seeyng,
O wretched state of man, in self Division?

Lalus.
O wretched state of man in self Division?
O, well thow sayest, a feeling declaracion?
Thy tongue hathe made of Cupides deepe incision,
But now hoârse voyce dothe fayle this occupacyon.
And others longe to tell theyre Loves Condicion,
Of singing, thow haste gott the Reputacyon.

Dorus.
Of singing, thow haste gott the Reputacyon,
Good Lalus myne, I yeelde to thy habillity
My harte dothe seeke an other estimacyon,
But, Ah (my Muse) I woulde thow hadst facility?
To worcke my Goddess so by thy Invention;
On mee to cast those eyes, where shyne Nobility,
Seene & knowne, hearde, but, withoute attention.