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 |
 |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. | THE THIRD PART OF THE MONETHS MIND OF A MELANCHOLY LOVER. |
 |
 | Alba. The Months Minde of a Melancholy Lover, diuided into three parts |  |
3. THE THIRD PART OF THE MONETHS MIND OF A MELANCHOLY LOVER.
Alla Crudelissima.
Lo here the course spun Web of Discontent,
Extract from out the cause of my trew Griefe,
The Quintesence of my Complaint close pent,
Wherein my Hart hath line without reliefe:
The Glasse wherein my sorrowes each may see,
Thou cruell Alba, thus haste plagued me.
Extract from out the cause of my trew Griefe,
The Quintesence of my Complaint close pent,
Wherein my Hart hath line without reliefe:
The Glasse wherein my sorrowes each may see,
Thou cruell Alba, thus haste plagued me.
Thinke on the Mestfull Months Minde I still keepe,
Depriude of thee, how I doe liue forlorne,
All night I sigh, all day I waile and weepe,
As one that hath all pleasures quite forsworne:
Thus (carefull I) doe care for careles thee,
Whilst wretchles thou, makst no account of mee.
Depriude of thee, how I doe liue forlorne,
All night I sigh, all day I waile and weepe,
As one that hath all pleasures quite forsworne:
Thus (carefull I) doe care for careles thee,
Whilst wretchles thou, makst no account of mee.
Knewst thou what t'were to Loue, and what to hate,
I know with Malice thine thou wouldst dispence,
And wouldst enhaunce my Bale to blissefull state,
And Loue with Loue, not Rigor recompence;
Ah gainst me doe not thou thy wrath incite,
Monstrous it is, Loue to repayde with spite.
I know with Malice thine thou wouldst dispence,
And wouldst enhaunce my Bale to blissefull state,
And Loue with Loue, not Rigor recompence;
Ah gainst me doe not thou thy wrath incite,
Monstrous it is, Loue to repayde with spite.
Be gracious then, though I haue graceles bin,
Let Fauour thine, aboue my Merit show,
Against the Tide, why shouldst thou alwaies swim;
And as a froward Tortoys backeward goe?
Not Night, but Light giue me with those faire Eyes,
Fierce Serpents (not milde Doues) enuenomise.
Let Fauour thine, aboue my Merit show,
Against the Tide, why shouldst thou alwaies swim;
And as a froward Tortoys backeward goe?
Not Night, but Light giue me with those faire Eyes,
Fierce Serpents (not milde Doues) enuenomise.
To thee (Deare Faire) that mak'st me fare amisse,
To thee my Goddesse I my prayers make,
And prostrate fall before thy Shrine of Blisse,
Crauing of thee, that them in worth thou take,
Whilest I to thee my Hart in humble wise,
Vpon thy beautious Altar sacrifise.
To thee my Goddesse I my prayers make,
And prostrate fall before thy Shrine of Blisse,
Crauing of thee, that them in worth thou take,
Whilest I to thee my Hart in humble wise,
Vpon thy beautious Altar sacrifise.
Peruse with kindenes this my sad complaint,
Since I with pacience doe abide the paine,
And but thy willing eare herewith acquaint,
So thy remembrance not forget the same:
Thy hart gainst me, not still induratize,
But my sad thoughts in me retranquillize.
Since I with pacience doe abide the paine,
And but thy willing eare herewith acquaint,
So thy remembrance not forget the same:
Thy hart gainst me, not still induratize,
But my sad thoughts in me retranquillize.
I will not leaue, vntill I leaue to loue,
(And leaue to loue, I will not till I die)
But thy hard flintie Breast, Ile somewhat moue,
To moane my Griefe, the cause I alwaies crie.
Crie will I to thee till my Voyce be hoarse,
And neuer leaue thee till thou take remorse.
(And leaue to loue, I will not till I die)
But thy hard flintie Breast, Ile somewhat moue,
To moane my Griefe, the cause I alwaies crie.
Crie will I to thee till my Voyce be hoarse,
And neuer leaue thee till thou take remorse.
From thy faire eyes the Sunnes Precursors bright,
This fire hath sprung, which all my parts doth burne,
No Art-Enammeld lines that I do write,
No praies nor praiers, to Mercie thee can turne:
Yet come the worst, the Age (to come) shall say,
I bare the prize for Constancie away.
This fire hath sprung, which all my parts doth burne,
No Art-Enammeld lines that I do write,
No praies nor praiers, to Mercie thee can turne:
Yet come the worst, the Age (to come) shall say,
I bare the prize for Constancie away.
Now earthly Goddesse haue thou some regards
To me thy seruant, crauing what is iust,
Though long at last, yeelde to me some rewarde,
Since I relie on thee, and wholy trust.
Thinke on the pennance sore I doe endure,
Which to my Soule, thine Absence doth procure.
To me thy seruant, crauing what is iust,
Though long at last, yeelde to me some rewarde,
Since I relie on thee, and wholy trust.
Thinke on the pennance sore I doe endure,
Which to my Soule, thine Absence doth procure.
Support my feeble Thoughts, that scarse can moue,
For thou wert wont, such, better to commend,
Who would persist more loyall in their Loue,
And perseuere vnto the latest end,
Then those, who whē Loues course they gan to run,
Would giue it ore, before halfe way were done.
For thou wert wont, such, better to commend,
Who would persist more loyall in their Loue,
And perseuere vnto the latest end,
Then those, who whē Loues course they gan to run,
Would giue it ore, before halfe way were done.
I cannot doe so, for my longing Hart,
Is knit in thine, in such perfection strange,
That Death these twaine in sunder cannot part,
Nor length of Time, nor Places distance change:
Thy Beautious Vertue, Vertuous Beautie tis,
That makes me ioy in noy, take Bale for blis.
Is knit in thine, in such perfection strange,
That Death these twaine in sunder cannot part,
Nor length of Time, nor Places distance change:
Thy Beautious Vertue, Vertuous Beautie tis,
That makes me ioy in noy, take Bale for blis.
Ah where art thou kinde Friendship that of yore,
Still with thy cheerefull smile, didst comfort mee?
And sweetely wouldst with me my state deplore,
When heauie, sad, and grieu'd thou didst me see?
Ah where are those Alcinoi daies as now?
I Metamorphosde am, I know not how.
Still with thy cheerefull smile, didst comfort mee?
And sweetely wouldst with me my state deplore,
When heauie, sad, and grieu'd thou didst me see?
Ah where are those Alcinoi daies as now?
I Metamorphosde am, I know not how.
Cleere shines the Sonne, yet shines it not on me,
Faire is the Morne, yet darkened is my Light,
Others the Spring, I Fall of leafe doe see,
Whilest I enioy no Day, but gloomy Night;
Thou art the cause (sweete Alba for thy Loue,
In absence thine) these bitter Brunts I proue.
Faire is the Morne, yet darkened is my Light,
Others the Spring, I Fall of leafe doe see,
Whilest I enioy no Day, but gloomy Night;
Thou art the cause (sweete Alba for thy Loue,
In absence thine) these bitter Brunts I proue.
Whilest thou like Princesse entertained art,
By thy kinde Tenants in most dutious wise,
Seeking to shew the zeale of their pure Hart,
By all the pleasing meanes they can deuise.
Striuing who shall thee better entertaine,
(Signes of thy welcome home to them againe.)
By thy kinde Tenants in most dutious wise,
Seeking to shew the zeale of their pure Hart,
By all the pleasing meanes they can deuise.
Striuing who shall thee better entertaine,
(Signes of thy welcome home to them againe.)
I here am left alone, all poste alone,
As Loves true Pledge, that lies for Faith to Pawne,
Onely to waite thy parture and to mone,
Whilest my Conceits on Sorrowes Tent are drawne,
Like to the Bird, on solitarie branch,
Wailing his Mates sowre losse through hard mischāce.
As Loves true Pledge, that lies for Faith to Pawne,
Onely to waite thy parture and to mone,
Whilest my Conceits on Sorrowes Tent are drawne,
Like to the Bird, on solitarie branch,
Wailing his Mates sowre losse through hard mischāce.
Then louely thou my Harts deare Treasurer,
Let me obtaine this Fauour at thy Grace,
That thou delay no longer nor defer,
But daine me once more, see thy heauenly face.
Else here I vow, (if so thou come not soone)
Me, shalt thou not see, thou shalt see my Toome.
Let me obtaine this Fauour at thy Grace,
That thou delay no longer nor defer,
But daine me once more, see thy heauenly face.
Else here I vow, (if so thou come not soone)
Me, shalt thou not see, thou shalt see my Toome.
Now that my weary spirits do runne their race,
To those transplendent Lamps of Alba faire:
And gazing there (in vaine) do plead for grace,
Leauing their ancient lodging nakte and bare.
She as their Foe stands on her Brauerie,
And passage to their Entrance doth denie.
To those transplendent Lamps of Alba faire:
And gazing there (in vaine) do plead for grace,
Leauing their ancient lodging nakte and bare.
She as their Foe stands on her Brauerie,
And passage to their Entrance doth denie.
They finding shut fast close milde Pities gate,
And seeing in what danger I remaine,
With haste returne from whence they came of late,
Retiring to their wonted Home againe,
Where they repose, of Hope quite dispossest,
And there with Feare and Care together rest.
And seeing in what danger I remaine,
With haste returne from whence they came of late,
Retiring to their wonted Home againe,
Where they repose, of Hope quite dispossest,
And there with Feare and Care together rest.
Disdaine those eyes spoyles, that before were bright,
And fierce Desire, that to reuenge hath minde
Increaseth still in hart to worke me spite,
Deuising how to make her more vnkinde:
The repaye, the Bellowes vnto Furie blowes,
The other, Slaue to wrathfull Anger showes.
And fierce Desire, that to reuenge hath minde
Increaseth still in hart to worke me spite,
Deuising how to make her more vnkinde:
The repaye, the Bellowes vnto Furie blowes,
The other, Slaue to wrathfull Anger showes.
But though to me she seemes as pitilesse,
Seeking my Death, without cause to conspire:
Yet will I beare with all wrongs nere the lesse,
Resolu'd to bide the vtmost of her Ire:
Against her wrath Ile true and Humble be,
For Faith's my Fence, my Shield's, Humilitie.
Seeking my Death, without cause to conspire:
Yet will I beare with all wrongs nere the lesse,
Resolu'd to bide the vtmost of her Ire:
Against her wrath Ile true and Humble be,
For Faith's my Fence, my Shield's, Humilitie.
Poore Meleager being in disdaine,
With furious Altea (cruell mother his)
She flang his fatall Brand in firie flame,
Long time kept by her, (as her chiefest blis)
So as through fire it did (consumde) decay,
His wretched life did peece-meale waste away.
With furious Altea (cruell mother his)
She flang his fatall Brand in firie flame,
Long time kept by her, (as her chiefest blis)
So as through fire it did (consumde) decay,
His wretched life did peece-meale waste away.
Altea, mine Alba is, Meleager, I,
The fatall Brand where bides my life, her Loue:
No longer then she keepes this happely
For me, no longer may my spirits moue.
Long time Affection kept it, but as now,
She flings it in the flame with angrie brow.
The fatall Brand where bides my life, her Loue:
No longer then she keepes this happely
For me, no longer may my spirits moue.
Long time Affection kept it, but as now,
She flings it in the flame with angrie brow.
Anger's the Fire, Suspect kindles the Flame,
Conceit's the Bellowes, wherewith she doth blow:
Haste was the hand which flung it in the same,
The Coles, Vnkindnes, that did burne it so.
Ah, but one drop of Water of her Grace,
If so I had, twould quencht be in small space.
Conceit's the Bellowes, wherewith she doth blow:
Haste was the hand which flung it in the same,
The Coles, Vnkindnes, that did burne it so.
Ah, but one drop of Water of her Grace,
If so I had, twould quencht be in small space.
Thus do I burne, and burning breathe my last,
And breathing last, to naught consume away:
Like to that Lampe whose Oyle when it doth waste,
By lesser light, and lesser doth decay.
Yet in this Fire I crie still for to moue her,
Ah pitie me th' vnhappiest loyall Louer.
And breathing last, to naught consume away:
Like to that Lampe whose Oyle when it doth waste,
By lesser light, and lesser doth decay.
Yet in this Fire I crie still for to moue her,
Ah pitie me th' vnhappiest loyall Louer.
Thou solitarie Mountaine, Mount of Mone,
Pleasing to me, mine only solace chiefe,
How like are we? we two seeme but as One,
Since thou shewst sad, and I still, to haue Griefe,
Thou with wilde sauadge Woods art compast round,
And in my Breast sharp austere Thoughts are found.
Pleasing to me, mine only solace chiefe,
How like are we? we two seeme but as One,
Since thou shewst sad, and I still, to haue Griefe,
Thou with wilde sauadge Woods art compast round,
And in my Breast sharp austere Thoughts are found.
The huger Hill in bignes thou dost show,
The more, (All) thee vncouth and sauadge deeme:
The more that I in yeares in Loue do grow,
The more deformed Creature I do seeme.
Water from thee, from euery side doth come,
And teares from our mine eyes as Fountaines run.
The more, (All) thee vncouth and sauadge deeme:
The more that I in yeares in Loue do grow,
The more deformed Creature I do seeme.
Water from thee, from euery side doth come,
And teares from our mine eyes as Fountaines run.
Thou dost abide the blustring furious winde,
The paine of skalding sighs perforce I feele:
Tempests and stormes, to thee are oft vnkinde,
But worse to me is Albas Hart of steele:
Thou strooken art by Ioues sire from aboue,
And I am blasted with Lightning of Loue.
The paine of skalding sighs perforce I feele:
Tempests and stormes, to thee are oft vnkinde,
But worse to me is Albas Hart of steele:
Thou strooken art by Ioues sire from aboue,
And I am blasted with Lightning of Loue.
Thou wantest Fruit, and I am without Hart,
Only in this my Griefes do thine exceede,
That where as thou insensible still art,
I (liuing) feele too well the Brunt indeede.
Yet wert thou worse I like in thee to stay,
Since that my Pearle, mine Alba's gone her way.
Only in this my Griefes do thine exceede,
That where as thou insensible still art,
I (liuing) feele too well the Brunt indeede.
Yet wert thou worse I like in thee to stay,
Since that my Pearle, mine Alba's gone her way.
O that I might my Griefes set downe at large,
And to the world make knowne mine Iniurie:
But I not dare, the Cruell giues in charge
Them to keepe close, and This beare patientlie:
Being so grieuous, as but part to know,
Would make the flintiest Hart to split for woe.
And to the world make knowne mine Iniurie:
But I not dare, the Cruell giues in charge
Them to keepe close, and This beare patientlie:
Being so grieuous, as but part to know,
Would make the flintiest Hart to split for woe.
Besides, if I my Crosses should reueale,
They would renew my sorrowes fresh againe:
Therefore I vowed haue them to conceale,
The more to feele the depth of lasting Paine:
Reaping not only discontent hereby,
But all Despayre of future remedie.
They would renew my sorrowes fresh againe:
Therefore I vowed haue them to conceale,
The more to feele the depth of lasting Paine:
Reaping not only discontent hereby,
But all Despayre of future remedie.
How secret haue I bin, this seuen whole yeare,
That scarce I haue not yet, nor yet scarce dare
To tell her Name, I so much still do feare,
To purchase th' anger of this sdainfull Faire?
How Faithfull, that haue offred her to please,
To dye for her? so ought I might her ease.
That scarce I haue not yet, nor yet scarce dare
To tell her Name, I so much still do feare,
To purchase th' anger of this sdainfull Faire?
How Faithfull, that haue offred her to please,
To dye for her? so ought I might her ease.
But what auailes all this? for all my griefe,
I cannot hope she euer will be kinde:
When she was present I nere found reliefe,
And (in her absence) think you she'le me minde?
O no, as likelie tis, she'le pitie mee,
As I am like (vnlikely) her to see.
I cannot hope she euer will be kinde:
When she was present I nere found reliefe,
And (in her absence) think you she'le me minde?
O no, as likelie tis, she'le pitie mee,
As I am like (vnlikely) her to see.
So great a griefe did neuer pearce the Hart,
Of any louing Mother ouer kinde,
When she her only sonne readie to part,
Doth see to forraine Countrie gainst her minde,
Losing the staffe of her old Age and stay,
On whom the Hope of all her Comfort lay;
Of any louing Mother ouer kinde,
When she her only sonne readie to part,
Doth see to forraine Countrie gainst her minde,
Losing the staffe of her old Age and stay,
On whom the Hope of all her Comfort lay;
As wofull I, when I those louely Eyes
Saw to looke back, which I should see no more
Of many daies, and when in pitious wise,
They shewd by signes Our parting grieu'd them sore.
Ah when her last looke back on me she cast,
Then, then, I thought I should haue breath'd my last.
Saw to looke back, which I should see no more
Of many daies, and when in pitious wise,
They shewd by signes Our parting grieu'd them sore.
Ah when her last looke back on me she cast,
Then, then, I thought I should haue breath'd my last.
Yet for my Harts sake did my spirits reuiue,
And life once more recouered they againe,
Whilst staring after her I kept aliue,
And thought that I (not seeing her) saw her plaine.
Long time my Powers were got into my sight,
Deluding me with pleasing false Delight.
And life once more recouered they againe,
Whilst staring after her I kept aliue,
And thought that I (not seeing her) saw her plaine.
Long time my Powers were got into my sight,
Deluding me with pleasing false Delight.
But now that her rare Beautie liues els where,
Ile waile with teares her Absence, (my Disgrace)
With weeping I my sight away will weare,
Which skornes to looke on any but that Face.
Eyes be Recluses, you can weep no more,
And (Hart) since She is gone, weep bloody gore.
Ile waile with teares her Absence, (my Disgrace)
With weeping I my sight away will weare,
Which skornes to looke on any but that Face.
Eyes be Recluses, you can weep no more,
And (Hart) since She is gone, weep bloody gore.
Ye Hoarie Hils and Icie waters colde,
If what fresh Aprill giues, sharp Ianiuere
To take away from you himselfe shewes bolde:
Yet quickly doth the Sunne with pleasing cheere,
Restore to you your Liueries greene againe,
And flowring Banks longst which you streme amain.
If what fresh Aprill giues, sharp Ianiuere
To take away from you himselfe shewes bolde:
Yet quickly doth the Sunne with pleasing cheere,
Restore to you your Liueries greene againe,
And flowring Banks longst which you streme amain.
But now to me, from whom mine Alba faire,
Still hides her selfe, all Hope is withered quite:
Nor will she shew her selfe, to ease my Care,
For thy yong Plant an enuious frost doth bite,
Since that same hart that gentle was of yore,
Hardning it selfe gainst me, still swelleth more.
Still hides her selfe, all Hope is withered quite:
Nor will she shew her selfe, to ease my Care,
For thy yong Plant an enuious frost doth bite,
Since that same hart that gentle was of yore,
Hardning it selfe gainst me, still swelleth more.
Nature (you) gouernes, but Loue rules ore mee;
Nature is louing as a Mother kinde,
Loue, worse then cruell Stepdame is to see,
And to my losse (gainst conscience) doth me binde,
Taking from me mine ancient Priuiledge
Whereby I liue, my daies for to abridge.
Nature is louing as a Mother kinde,
Loue, worse then cruell Stepdame is to see,
And to my losse (gainst conscience) doth me binde,
Taking from me mine ancient Priuiledge
Whereby I liue, my daies for to abridge.
Then happie Hils you shall be greene againe,
And blessed Springs your Courses you shall holde:
But if that she reuiue not that hath slaine,
I soone shall dye, Conceit is growne so colde,
Lest her warme Sunne glide hither it to thaw,
My freezing Hart no more his breath shall draw.
And blessed Springs your Courses you shall holde:
But if that she reuiue not that hath slaine,
I soone shall dye, Conceit is growne so colde,
Lest her warme Sunne glide hither it to thaw,
My freezing Hart no more his breath shall draw.
How long shall I knock at that Iron Gate,
Of thy hard Hart, for mercie? (but in vaine?)
How long my Griefes to thy deaffe eares relate,
And reape nought els but trauell for my paine?
Yet still Ile hope, since Acornes, Okes become,
And tynie drops proue Floods that streaming runne.
Of thy hard Hart, for mercie? (but in vaine?)
How long my Griefes to thy deaffe eares relate,
And reape nought els but trauell for my paine?
Yet still Ile hope, since Acornes, Okes become,
And tynie drops proue Floods that streaming runne.
Thy face is faire, yeeld Fauour then to mee;
Thy hart is flesh, not bone, then gently show;
Ah let thy Loue with thy sweet Cheere agree;
And to attonement we shall quickly grow:
My Loue which is to thee more then extreame,
Requite not with a fortune, ouer meane.
Thy hart is flesh, not bone, then gently show;
Ah let thy Loue with thy sweet Cheere agree;
And to attonement we shall quickly grow:
My Loue which is to thee more then extreame,
Requite not with a fortune, ouer meane.
If thou shouldst be Vnfaithfull in thy Loue,
VVhere should I flie for succour, or for Truth?
If th' owlt not heare my sute, whom should I moue?
If thou be Cruell, who will then shew Ruth?
If thou Deceit shalt vse, twill likely be,
Others dispence will with deepst subtiltie.
VVhere should I flie for succour, or for Truth?
If th' owlt not heare my sute, whom should I moue?
If thou be Cruell, who will then shew Ruth?
If thou Deceit shalt vse, twill likely be,
Others dispence will with deepst subtiltie.
More triall then th' hast had thou canst not haue;
(How oft) my secret Harts depth wilt thou sound?
Wilt thou my blood spill when thou maist it saue?
When thou maist heale my Grief, still wilt thou wound?
Ah do not (Surgion like) Anatomise,
Each muskle of my griefe in cruell wise.
(How oft) my secret Harts depth wilt thou sound?
Wilt thou my blood spill when thou maist it saue?
When thou maist heale my Grief, still wilt thou wound?
Ah do not (Surgion like) Anatomise,
Each muskle of my griefe in cruell wise.
Sick in my lothed Bed I languish fast,
Nor can my learned Doctor help me ought,
His cunning now is at the latest cast,
Yet he no ease to crased me hath brought.
And marueile none though he no help can finde,
Sick am I not in Bodie, but in minde.
Nor can my learned Doctor help me ought,
His cunning now is at the latest cast,
Yet he no ease to crased me hath brought.
And marueile none though he no help can finde,
Sick am I not in Bodie, but in minde.
My hart each houre doth worse and worser proue,
And my Disease encreaseth more and more,
Because he wants her sight whom I doe loue:
Nor can I haue a salue for this my sore,
Lesse so much labour, Love for me doth take,
As my Phisition, Alba faire to make.
And my Disease encreaseth more and more,
Because he wants her sight whom I doe loue:
Nor can I haue a salue for this my sore,
Lesse so much labour, Love for me doth take,
As my Phisition, Alba faire to make.
Sick is my soule, my Body languisheth,
Th' one's farre from health, the other's nothing nie:
So as I doubtfull loue, scarce drawing breath,
Twixt feare and hope in this extremitie.
A strange Consumption hath me wasted long,
And for a Pearle restoratiue I long.
Th' one's farre from health, the other's nothing nie:
So as I doubtfull loue, scarce drawing breath,
Twixt feare and hope in this extremitie.
A strange Consumption hath me wasted long,
And for a Pearle restoratiue I long.
This for me, then all Phisick is most sure,
Or els I doubt I neuer shall be whole:
For whilst that Nature would my Bodie cure,
Loue pestilenzing) doth infect my soule.
Then Alba shew now if thou be'st Diuine,
Raise Dead to life, for now, or nere tis time.
Or els I doubt I neuer shall be whole:
For whilst that Nature would my Bodie cure,
Loue pestilenzing) doth infect my soule.
Then Alba shew now if thou be'st Diuine,
Raise Dead to life, for now, or nere tis time.
Why should I loue, when I am loathed still?
And praise her still, who seekes me to dispraise?
Why should graue reason yeelde to headstrong will,
My Griefes the more to multiplie and raise.
I doe commit Idolatrie extreme
With her, whom I should rather right blaspheme.
And praise her still, who seekes me to dispraise?
Why should graue reason yeelde to headstrong will,
My Griefes the more to multiplie and raise.
I doe commit Idolatrie extreme
With her, whom I should rather right blaspheme.
Fire if it warme not, for no Fire we deeme,
The Sunne, no Sunne we count, except it shine,
Water, no water, but it wet doe seeme,
Vertue, no Vertue, lest it show some signe;
No Woman is she, thats not pitifull,
Rather Prices Spaune, a nice disdainefull Trull.
The Sunne, no Sunne we count, except it shine,
Water, no water, but it wet doe seeme,
Vertue, no Vertue, lest it show some signe;
No Woman is she, thats not pitifull,
Rather Prices Spaune, a nice disdainefull Trull.
Haue I transgrest the Boundes of Modestie?
Whispering vndecent speeches in her Eare,
Or haue I (ere) assailde her Chastitie,
And sought the spoyle thereof away to beare
If I haue shamde my self in such grosse wise,
Why then she reason hath me to despise.
Whispering vndecent speeches in her Eare,
Or haue I (ere) assailde her Chastitie,
And sought the spoyle thereof away to beare
If I haue shamde my self in such grosse wise,
Why then she reason hath me to despise.
Ah, no, far be it from my harmeles Thought,
Such base vnseemely tricks to her to moue,
A matter small it was (God knowes) I sought,
Onely to be Retainer to her Loue.
No scandall t'is, t'is no Disparagement,
Seruice t'accept, where naught but Honors ment.
Such base vnseemely tricks to her to moue,
A matter small it was (God knowes) I sought,
Onely to be Retainer to her Loue.
No scandall t'is, t'is no Disparagement,
Seruice t'accept, where naught but Honors ment.
Faine would I take of quiet sleepe the Say,
My wearied Corse with ease for to delight,
But I no wished rest can finde by Day,
Nor slumber sweetely in my bed by Night.
No rest I wretched man as yet can take,
My woes are such, as force me still to wake.
My wearied Corse with ease for to delight,
But I no wished rest can finde by Day,
Nor slumber sweetely in my bed by Night.
No rest I wretched man as yet can take,
My woes are such, as force me still to wake.
My Trueth is measured by my Fortune hard,
And (I poore soule) Vnfaithfull iudged am,
Because I seeme Vnhappie; and am bard
Frō all good Chance: (Gainst right) I beare the blame,
But willingly; (since she doth will) I shall,
Whose Absence turnes my Hony into Gaule.
And (I poore soule) Vnfaithfull iudged am,
Because I seeme Vnhappie; and am bard
Frō all good Chance: (Gainst right) I beare the blame,
But willingly; (since she doth will) I shall,
Whose Absence turnes my Hony into Gaule.
Yet faine I slumber would, though but a while;
But if I cannot with that Fode be fed,
I will embrace (the time for to beguile)
Such golden Thoughts as are within my head.
Golden indeede, Golde Thoughts of such a one,
As I prefer fore Golde, though she a Stone.
But if I cannot with that Fode be fed,
I will embrace (the time for to beguile)
Such golden Thoughts as are within my head.
Golden indeede, Golde Thoughts of such a one,
As I prefer fore Golde, though she a Stone.
But sleepe, or die, Then, dye, thou canst not sleepe,
For thee to sleepe it is impossibell,
To thinke what's past, broade waking will thee keepe:
Which thou must still conceale, not any tell.
My comfort's this, that waking as I die,
I see my Loue in Thought, though not with eye.
For thee to sleepe it is impossibell,
To thinke what's past, broade waking will thee keepe:
Which thou must still conceale, not any tell.
My comfort's this, that waking as I die,
I see my Loue in Thought, though not with eye.
Pure Iuorie, white with spot of Crimson red,
Where Beauties First Borne lay the perfect Molde,
Or like Aurora rising from her Bed,
Such was mine Alba faire for to beholde.
Such was She, when She louely Love ore came,
The Conquerors Glory, Conquereds Pleasing Shame.
Where Beauties First Borne lay the perfect Molde,
Or like Aurora rising from her Bed,
Such was mine Alba faire for to beholde.
Such was She, when She louely Love ore came,
The Conquerors Glory, Conquereds Pleasing Shame.
But now that Cullor faire hath changde his grace,
Through Burning Feuer, (deadly in his kinde)
And Sallow Palenes stained hath that Face,
To whome the Prize for Fauour was assinde,
Sicke is my Lady, sicke is all Delight,
And brightest Day is turnde to darkest Night.
Through Burning Feuer, (deadly in his kinde)
And Sallow Palenes stained hath that Face,
To whome the Prize for Fauour was assinde,
Sicke is my Lady, sicke is all Delight,
And brightest Day is turnde to darkest Night.
Fortune hath stolne from Alba, tooke from Love,
From him she takes his, Solace, Sport and Play;
From Her her Beautie which she would improue,
And to her selfe, would (falsely it conuay.
Being Pitifull she Cruell seemes to be,
And in her Blindenes sheweth that she can see:
From him she takes his, Solace, Sport and Play;
From Her her Beautie which she would improue,
And to her selfe, would (falsely it conuay.
Being Pitifull she Cruell seemes to be,
And in her Blindenes sheweth that she can see:
False Fortune darke as Molle in any Good,
But to doe Hurt, as Argus, full of Eyes,
In outward shew, a Tiger fierce and wood:
And yet to me she's Kinde in piteous wise.
Since She, by drawing Beautie from that place,
Quencht hath my Fier, to ease me for a space.
But to doe Hurt, as Argus, full of Eyes,
In outward shew, a Tiger fierce and wood:
And yet to me she's Kinde in piteous wise.
Since She, by drawing Beautie from that place,
Quencht hath my Fier, to ease me for a space.
My Harte vpon his Deathbed, sicke, did lye,
Calling vpon proude Alba but in vaine;
Too Cruell she, (for pittie) it did crie,
Yet had Repulse through Rigor of Disdaine.
So as to liue thus (long) it could not bide,
But soone gaue vp the Ghost, and so he dide.
Calling vpon proude Alba but in vaine;
Too Cruell she, (for pittie) it did crie,
Yet had Repulse through Rigor of Disdaine.
So as to liue thus (long) it could not bide,
But soone gaue vp the Ghost, and so he dide.
Then to the Chappell of bad Fortuna harde,
By smoking sighes it quickelie was conuaide,
A place for these sad Funerals preparde,
Where in a Tombe of Loyaltie t'was laide.
Anger, Suspect, Griefe, Sorow, Care, and Feare,
VVith dismall Doubtes, the chiefest Mourners were.
By smoking sighes it quickelie was conuaide,
A place for these sad Funerals preparde,
Where in a Tombe of Loyaltie t'was laide.
Anger, Suspect, Griefe, Sorow, Care, and Feare,
VVith dismall Doubtes, the chiefest Mourners were.
About the Hierce, great store of Teares were shed,
The Torches that did burne so cleare and bright,
VVere Albas eyes by Crueltie misled,
VVhilest she triumpht to see so wofull sight.
Pittie the Dirge did sing with wofull Plaint,
Assisted with a blacke and dismall Saunt.
The Torches that did burne so cleare and bright,
VVere Albas eyes by Crueltie misled,
VVhilest she triumpht to see so wofull sight.
Pittie the Dirge did sing with wofull Plaint,
Assisted with a blacke and dismall Saunt.
Vpon the Monument yplaced was,
Fire, Sworde, and Corde, with Arrowes sharpe & keene,
The Epitaph (for such as by should pas)
VVas thus subscribde, and carued to be seene.
Loe here that gentle Hart entombde doth lie,
Whom cruell Alba causeles, forst to die.
Fire, Sworde, and Corde, with Arrowes sharpe & keene,
The Epitaph (for such as by should pas)
VVas thus subscribde, and carued to be seene.
Loe here that gentle Hart entombde doth lie,
Whom cruell Alba causeles, forst to die.
Poore Soule, in couert ioy, thy Care sauns rest,
VVeare VVillow in thy Hat, Baies in thy Hart,
Gold when it bubleth least, then boyles it best,
VVater runs smoothest in the deepest part.
By thy great warines let it be seene,
Not what thou now art, but what thou hast beene.
VVeare VVillow in thy Hat, Baies in thy Hart,
Gold when it bubleth least, then boyles it best,
VVater runs smoothest in the deepest part.
By thy great warines let it be seene,
Not what thou now art, but what thou hast beene.
The greatest comfort (as a Louers dew)
Is, of his Mistris Secrets, much to know,
Yet no lesse labor for him (being Trew)
Then naught to say, nor ought thereof to show,
Of men we learne to speake, things to reueale,
Of Gods, silent to be, and to conceale.
Is, of his Mistris Secrets, much to know,
Yet no lesse labor for him (being Trew)
Then naught to say, nor ought thereof to show,
Of men we learne to speake, things to reueale,
Of Gods, silent to be, and to conceale.
Yet sweete's the Beautie of mine Alba faire:
What blabst thou it? yea blab it willinglie,
Bees that doe die with honey, buried are,
With dulcet notes, and heauenly Harmonie;
And they that dying, doe Beautie still commend,
Shall be with kindenes honored in the end.
What blabst thou it? yea blab it willinglie,
Bees that doe die with honey, buried are,
With dulcet notes, and heauenly Harmonie;
And they that dying, doe Beautie still commend,
Shall be with kindenes honored in the end.
Then hope thou well, and haue well (as they say)
Long haue I hopte, but Hoping is in vaine,
Hope with Allusions, dallying doth me pay,
Yet but for Hope, the Hart would breake in twaine.
Ah Melt my Hart, would Melted once thou were,
Thou shouldst not then haue cause so much to feare.
Long haue I hopte, but Hoping is in vaine,
Hope with Allusions, dallying doth me pay,
Yet but for Hope, the Hart would breake in twaine.
Ah Melt my Hart, would Melted once thou were,
Thou shouldst not then haue cause so much to feare.
The Fall of Leafe, the Spring tide of my Loue,
Flowring a fresh with Hope I found to bee:
But now (alas) the Spring time for to proue,
Fall of the Leafe of my lost Loue I see.
The Carnouale of my sweet Love is past,
Now comes the Lent of my long Hate at last.
Flowring a fresh with Hope I found to bee:
But now (alas) the Spring time for to proue,
Fall of the Leafe of my lost Loue I see.
The Carnouale of my sweet Love is past,
Now comes the Lent of my long Hate at last.
Love is reuolted, whilst he (Traytor like)
Against his prince (gainst me his Soueraigne)
Weapons vniust (sauns cause) takes vp to fight,
And doth his fealtie and his Homage staine.
He is reuolted and mine Alba's fled,
I seeme aliue here, yet in deede am dead.
Against his prince (gainst me his Soueraigne)
Weapons vniust (sauns cause) takes vp to fight,
And doth his fealtie and his Homage staine.
He is reuolted and mine Alba's fled,
I seeme aliue here, yet in deede am dead.
In vaine I wish for what I cannot haue,
And seeke with griefe to aggrauate my Mone:
What is to me denied, that still I craue,
Gaulling my selfe with fond Conceits alone:
Yet I forgiue her, little knoweth she,
That she her owne Hart wounds, when she kils me.
And seeke with griefe to aggrauate my Mone:
What is to me denied, that still I craue,
Gaulling my selfe with fond Conceits alone:
Yet I forgiue her, little knoweth she,
That she her owne Hart wounds, when she kils me.
Meane time in vncouth Sorrowes secret Cell,
My haples Fortune hard I will disiest,
Hating all ioy, I priuat there will dwell,
Because I of my wish am dispossest.
Like Petrark chaste of Laura coy I plaine,
Of whom I (neuer yet) could Fauour gaine.
My haples Fortune hard I will disiest,
Hating all ioy, I priuat there will dwell,
Because I of my wish am dispossest.
Like Petrark chaste of Laura coy I plaine,
Of whom I (neuer yet) could Fauour gaine.
How long shall I importune thee with Cries,
And presse thee for some Grace (bard flintie Dame?)
How long my sute deplore in pitious wise,
And yet be frustrate of that I complaine?
Vrge me with ought if so thou canst of Ill,
Do but obiect, and answer thee I will.
And presse thee for some Grace (bard flintie Dame?)
How long my sute deplore in pitious wise,
And yet be frustrate of that I complaine?
Vrge me with ought if so thou canst of Ill,
Do but obiect, and answer thee I will.
Cite me at Loves
great Audit to appeare,
And if a iust account I giue not thee
Of all my Life, since Loyall I did sweare
Vnto thy Cruell selfe, casheere thou mee:
But if I true haue bin and dealt vpright,
Thou dost me wrong to set by me so light.
And if a iust account I giue not thee
Of all my Life, since Loyall I did sweare
Vnto thy Cruell selfe, casheere thou mee:
But if I true haue bin and dealt vpright,
Thou dost me wrong to set by me so light.
More then high time tis for thee to relent,
My sorrowes flowes aboue their wonted Bound,
And well nie breake my Hart where they art pent,
(For so great Force) a too too slender ground.
Then me supplant not from my wished rest,
But do abiure harsh Rigor from thy brest.
My sorrowes flowes aboue their wonted Bound,
And well nie breake my Hart where they art pent,
(For so great Force) a too too slender ground.
Then me supplant not from my wished rest,
But do abiure harsh Rigor from thy brest.
Affect me (not inflict on me) fresh woe
Thy Loue, my seruice merits, not thy Hate,
My loyall Hart to thee, didst thou but know,
Thou wouldst not thus reuenge, but rew my state:
Nor am I ouer bolde in what I craue,
Pitie (not Fauour) I desire to haue.
Thy Loue, my seruice merits, not thy Hate,
My loyall Hart to thee, didst thou but know,
Thou wouldst not thus reuenge, but rew my state:
Nor am I ouer bolde in what I craue,
Pitie (not Fauour) I desire to haue.
Tavvny and black, my Courtly Colours be,
Tawny, (because forsooke I am) I weare:
Black, (since mine Albas Loue is dead to me,
Yet liueth in another) I do beare.
Then welcome tavvny, since I am forsaken,
And come deare black, since my Loue's from me taken.
Tawny, (because forsooke I am) I weare:
Black, (since mine Albas Loue is dead to me,
Yet liueth in another) I do beare.
Then welcome tavvny, since I am forsaken,
And come deare black, since my Loue's from me taken.
The princelike Eagle's neuer smit with Thunder,
Nor th' Oliue tree with Lightning blasted showes:
No marueile is to me, or wonder,
Though my Coy Dame, in Loue to me hard growes:
More deafe to me she is then sensles stock,
Her Hart's obdurate like the hardned rock.
Nor th' Oliue tree with Lightning blasted showes:
No marueile is to me, or wonder,
Though my Coy Dame, in Loue to me hard growes:
More deafe to me she is then sensles stock,
Her Hart's obdurate like the hardned rock.
But what meane I thus without Reason prate?
I am no more forsaken then I was:
My Loue's no more dead then it was of late;
For yet mine Alba nere for me did passe:
My Loue's not dead, she neuer me forsooke,
For Alba (nere yet) me in fauour tooke.
I am no more forsaken then I was:
My Loue's no more dead then it was of late;
For yet mine Alba nere for me did passe:
My Loue's not dead, she neuer me forsooke,
For Alba (nere yet) me in fauour tooke.
As many Fauours haue I as before:
For since I her (first) lou'd, she me disdainde,
And still doth so, still wounding me the more,
As in despayre I haue ere since remainde:
Yet I in black and tavvny Weedes will goe,
Because Forsooke, and dead I am with woe.
For since I her (first) lou'd, she me disdainde,
And still doth so, still wounding me the more,
As in despayre I haue ere since remainde:
Yet I in black and tavvny Weedes will goe,
Because Forsooke, and dead I am with woe.
Loves labor lost, I once did see a Play,
Ycleped so, so called to my paine,
VVhich I to heare to my small Ioy did stay,
Giuing attendance on my froward Dame,
My misgiuing minde presaging to me Ill,
Yet was I drawne to see it gainst my Will.
Ycleped so, so called to my paine,
VVhich I to heare to my small Ioy did stay,
Giuing attendance on my froward Dame,
My misgiuing minde presaging to me Ill,
Yet was I drawne to see it gainst my Will.
This Play no Play, but Plague was vnto me,
For there I lost the Loue I liked most:
And what to others seemde a Iest to be,
I, that (in earnest) found vnto my cost.
To euery one (saue me) twas Comicall,
Whilst Tragick like to me it did befall.
For there I lost the Loue I liked most:
And what to others seemde a Iest to be,
I, that (in earnest) found vnto my cost.
To euery one (saue me) twas Comicall,
Whilst Tragick like to me it did befall.
Each Actor plaid in cunning wise his part,
But chiefly Those entrapt in Cupids snare:
Yet All was fained, twas not from the hart,
They seemde to grieue, but yet they felt no care:
Twas I that Griefe (indeed) did beare in brest,
The others did but make a show in Iest.
But chiefly Those entrapt in Cupids snare:
Yet All was fained, twas not from the hart,
They seemde to grieue, but yet they felt no care:
Twas I that Griefe (indeed) did beare in brest,
The others did but make a show in Iest.
Yet neither faining theirs, nor my meere Truth,
Could make her once so much as for to smile:
Whilst she (despite of pitie milde and ruth)
Did sit as skorning of my Woes the while.
Thus did she sit to see Love lose his Love,
Like hardned Rock that force nor power can moue.
Could make her once so much as for to smile:
Whilst she (despite of pitie milde and ruth)
Did sit as skorning of my Woes the while.
Thus did she sit to see Love lose his Love,
Like hardned Rock that force nor power can moue.
My lifes Catastrophe is at an end,
The Staffe whereon my sickly Loue did leane,
And which from falling (still) did him defend,
Is through mischance in sunder broken cleane.
Gone is my Mediatrix, my best Aduocate,
Who vsde for me to intercessionate.
The Staffe whereon my sickly Loue did leane,
And which from falling (still) did him defend,
Is through mischance in sunder broken cleane.
Gone is my Mediatrix, my best Aduocate,
Who vsde for me to intercessionate.
Ah that my Loue cannot aright be waide
In Ballance iust, as merits due desart,
But must with Hate (for her Goodwill be paide)
Whereof Th' exchequer is mine Albas Hart:
The Saphire cut with his owne dust may be,
Mine owne pure Faith, in Loue confoundeth me.
In Ballance iust, as merits due desart,
But must with Hate (for her Goodwill be paide)
Whereof Th' exchequer is mine Albas Hart:
The Saphire cut with his owne dust may be,
Mine owne pure Faith, in Loue confoundeth me.
O be not still vnto me (thus) seuere,
But rather Simplest milde in sicknes mine:
Honey with Gawle, Oyle mix with Vineger,
With frownes, blithe smiles, some sweete with sower of thine,
Giue me (to comfort mine) a Lenatiue,
But not t'encrease my Paine, sharpe Corasiue.
But rather Simplest milde in sicknes mine:
Honey with Gawle, Oyle mix with Vineger,
With frownes, blithe smiles, some sweete with sower of thine,
Giue me (to comfort mine) a Lenatiue,
But not t'encrease my Paine, sharpe Corasiue.
Canst thou endure that as a Ghost or Sprite,
I still should haunt thee with my irksome cryes?
Ah yet at last vnto thy selfe be like,
Some pitie shew from out those murthring eyes.
If th' owlt not grant my sute, nor louing be,
At least, yet in my Griefe, do flatter me.
I still should haunt thee with my irksome cryes?
Ah yet at last vnto thy selfe be like,
Some pitie shew from out those murthring eyes.
If th' owlt not grant my sute, nor louing be,
At least, yet in my Griefe, do flatter me.
Deare Parler, (louing lodging vnto me)
Mine only Walke and Garden of Delight,
Ah who hath tooke thy Beautie now from thee?
And reft from me what most did please my sight?
Ah if our wonted Sunne do not returne,
(As absent Her) so, me, (dead) shalt thou mourne.
Mine only Walke and Garden of Delight,
Ah who hath tooke thy Beautie now from thee?
And reft from me what most did please my sight?
Ah if our wonted Sunne do not returne,
(As absent Her) so, me, (dead) shalt thou mourne.
My Hart that scarce his fainting breath drawes hard,
Demaundeth still his tribute of mine eyes,
Needes must I say a too too small reward,
Whilst he his Masters sorrowes oremuch tries.
(Poore Hart) thy Master wrongs thee I confesse,
Yet cannot he amend it neere the lesse.
Demaundeth still his tribute of mine eyes,
Needes must I say a too too small reward,
Whilst he his Masters sorrowes oremuch tries.
(Poore Hart) thy Master wrongs thee I confesse,
Yet cannot he amend it neere the lesse.
I beare my part with thee in this sad mone,
In this sad Quire where dolefull Notes I sing:
For not to any but to me alone,
This Roomth as vncouth seemes and griefe doth bring,
Yet since she here did vse her walke to make,
These naked Walls Ile honor for her sake.
In this sad Quire where dolefull Notes I sing:
For not to any but to me alone,
This Roomth as vncouth seemes and griefe doth bring,
Yet since she here did vse her walke to make,
These naked Walls Ile honor for her sake.
Ah Quondam Temple of my Goddesse faire,
Great reason haue I thee for to adore:
Thy Boords and Windowes I do holde as rare,
Since thou hast entertainde her heretofore,
Though Saint be gone, and nought be left but Shrine,
Yet for her Loue Ile hold thee as Diuine.
Great reason haue I thee for to adore:
Thy Boords and Windowes I do holde as rare,
Since thou hast entertainde her heretofore,
Though Saint be gone, and nought be left but Shrine,
Yet for her Loue Ile hold thee as Diuine.
Shall these same Eyes, but now no Eyes at all,
Raine Teares still thus? and shall this my poore Hart
In vaine vpon a flintie Corse still call
For mercie, who no Mercie will impart?
Shal this my Tongue now hoarse, with (Pitie) crying,
Nere finde reliefe, but still a Voice denying?
Raine Teares still thus? and shall this my poore Hart
In vaine vpon a flintie Corse still call
For mercie, who no Mercie will impart?
Shal this my Tongue now hoarse, with (Pitie) crying,
Nere finde reliefe, but still a Voice denying?
Ah partiall Love! Ah, World vnmeet for men!
Ah maners fit for sauadge Beasts to loathe!
Ah wicked Fortune thus dost quit me then!
Because thou seest my selfe with Loue I cloathe,
Another shall despoyle me and vnbare?
Is this reward for faith vowde to the Faire?
Ah maners fit for sauadge Beasts to loathe!
Ah wicked Fortune thus dost quit me then!
Because thou seest my selfe with Loue I cloathe,
Another shall despoyle me and vnbare?
Is this reward for faith vowde to the Faire?
Sweet meate sowre sawce deserues, I must confesse,
But pure Loue, should nere purchase Hate in right:
By Ones Disdaine, which is remedilesse,
I liue to like (vnlou'd) to worke my spight.
Wretched's that Wight, but faithfull Paterne rare,
That doth through Loue, Death to himselfe prepare.
But pure Loue, should nere purchase Hate in right:
By Ones Disdaine, which is remedilesse,
I liue to like (vnlou'd) to worke my spight.
Wretched's that Wight, but faithfull Paterne rare,
That doth through Loue, Death to himselfe prepare.
Now by these brinish teares that outwardly
Distill from weeping eyes, like showers of raine:
And by those drops of blood vnseene of eye,
Which inwardly from hart streame downe amaine:
And by what els I haue; All which, is Thine,
Begin to loue, els end this life of mine.
Distill from weeping eyes, like showers of raine:
And by those drops of blood vnseene of eye,
Which inwardly from hart streame downe amaine:
And by what els I haue; All which, is Thine,
Begin to loue, els end this life of mine.
Ah Alba faire, ah me vnfortunate!
Ah that my Birth's so low, my Thoughts so hie,
My due Desires so great so poore my state,
As not to ioy my Right, deseruinglie!
How might I please thee, thee for to possesse?
With how great will would I my selfe addresse?
Ah that my Birth's so low, my Thoughts so hie,
My due Desires so great so poore my state,
As not to ioy my Right, deseruinglie!
How might I please thee, thee for to possesse?
With how great will would I my selfe addresse?
Will Labours patient of Extremities,
Obtaine the fauour of thy long sought Loue?
I will attempt, if so thou but deuise,
Monsters to tame, and Mountaines to remoue:
Alcides like, all things I will subdue,
So I may finde thee gracious when I sue.
Obtaine the fauour of thy long sought Loue?
I will attempt, if so thou but deuise,
Monsters to tame, and Mountaines to remoue:
Alcides like, all things I will subdue,
So I may finde thee gracious when I sue.
Dost thou the passions of deep Loue desire?
The sad despayring moode of perplext minde,
The nere exprest through hidden torments) Fire
Of racked Thoughts? dost couet this to finde?
Mark my deep sighs, my hollow eyes, salt teares,
My broken sleepes, my heauy countnance beares.
The sad despayring moode of perplext minde,
The nere exprest through hidden torments) Fire
Of racked Thoughts? dost couet this to finde?
Mark my deep sighs, my hollow eyes, salt teares,
My broken sleepes, my heauy countnance beares.
Wouldst thou I to thy Beautie vowde should bee?
And in thy seruice spend my long lifes time?
Remember then my solitarie life for thee,
This seuen whole yeares (a Prentiship of mine)
Tis true (thou knowst) where ere thou (now) remaine,
Then be appeasde, and pleasde to ease my paine.
And in thy seruice spend my long lifes time?
Remember then my solitarie life for thee,
This seuen whole yeares (a Prentiship of mine)
Tis true (thou knowst) where ere thou (now) remaine,
Then be appeasde, and pleasde to ease my paine.
Say then faire Alba, faire, yet full of spight,
What haue I done that thou shouldst me vndoe?
Holding thee Deare, why setst by me so light?
Why silent art thou when to thee I sue?
The more Submissiue I, and Humble am,
Why gainst me dost thy selfe still sdainfull frame?
What haue I done that thou shouldst me vndoe?
Holding thee Deare, why setst by me so light?
Why silent art thou when to thee I sue?
The more Submissiue I, and Humble am,
Why gainst me dost thy selfe still sdainfull frame?
Whom haue I but mine owne Thoughts entertainde,
And thy rare Vertues and what companie
But Contemplation, hath with me remainde?
And whom haue I still wondred at but thee?
Whom haue I not contemnd for thee, since time
I first beheld that matchles shape of thine?
And thy rare Vertues and what companie
But Contemplation, hath with me remainde?
And whom haue I still wondred at but thee?
Whom haue I not contemnd for thee, since time
I first beheld that matchles shape of thine?
Haue I not crept to some, not trod with feete
On them, cause thou to fauour them I saw?
Haue not all Iniuries to me bin sweete?
If thou didst will me beare them, twas a Law.
Haue I not spent my golden yeares with hope?
Seeking nought but thy Loue (my Wishes scope.)
On them, cause thou to fauour them I saw?
Haue not all Iniuries to me bin sweete?
If thou didst will me beare them, twas a Law.
Haue I not spent my golden yeares with hope?
Seeking nought but thy Loue (my Wishes scope.)
Yet in the midst of these distempered Thoughts,
Thou art not only Ielous of my Truth,
But makst account of me, farre worse then Noughts,
Nor dost by Message yeeld me any Ruth:
My Loue vnspotted, cannot be accepted,
My Truth (O strange) vnspeakable's, reiected.
Thou art not only Ielous of my Truth,
But makst account of me, farre worse then Noughts,
Nor dost by Message yeeld me any Ruth:
My Loue vnspotted, cannot be accepted,
My Truth (O strange) vnspeakable's, reiected.
Like to this Sea, Love hath me fashiond right,
He full of water, I replete with woe:
He boyles and bubleth vp in open sight,
I fret and rage where ere I (wandring) goe:
He flowes, and boue his banks the surges rise,
(From me) salt teares gush forth in streaming wise.
He full of water, I replete with woe:
He boyles and bubleth vp in open sight,
I fret and rage where ere I (wandring) goe:
He flowes, and boue his banks the surges rise,
(From me) salt teares gush forth in streaming wise.
He water wants not, nor my Griefes decrease;
Thousands of quicksands hath he all about,
I, thousand cares that on my Hart do sease:
His waues are cut in twaine, my Hart, throughout.
The whistling reedes about his banks do sound,
Sorrow in me is of my song the ground.
Thousands of quicksands hath he all about,
I, thousand cares that on my Hart do sease:
His waues are cut in twaine, my Hart, throughout.
The whistling reedes about his banks do sound,
Sorrow in me is of my song the ground.
Both windes and raine vpon him (daily) fall,
I still, distill salt showres and sighs amaine:
By tempests, oft his Channels broke are all,
My Bowels cleft be with continuall paine:
His bottome none can well perceiue or see,
My Torments without depth sauns sounding bee.
I still, distill salt showres and sighs amaine:
By tempests, oft his Channels broke are all,
My Bowels cleft be with continuall paine:
His bottome none can well perceiue or see,
My Torments without depth sauns sounding bee.
Only we differ thus, he still doth bide
Here, swallowing them that passe alongst this place,
I vade away, and (Cruell Homicide)
Murther I do my selfe in pitious case.
Who then can rid me (Not amie of Woe)
From these hell plagues? None, but my Cruell Foe.
Here, swallowing them that passe alongst this place,
I vade away, and (Cruell Homicide)
Murther I do my selfe in pitious case.
Who then can rid me (Not amie of Woe)
From these hell plagues? None, but my Cruell Foe.
Alba I haue not liued ouer long,
Yet haue I hollow eyes, and haires halfe gray:
My yeares not many, for I am but yong,
Though wrinckled be my cheekes and lims decay.
But is this Destnie, or ist pure Deceit?
That hath on me (thus) wrought this cunning feat?
Yet haue I hollow eyes, and haires halfe gray:
My yeares not many, for I am but yong,
Though wrinckled be my cheekes and lims decay.
But is this Destnie, or ist pure Deceit?
That hath on me (thus) wrought this cunning feat?
Ift be the first, why then none could preuent
My wretched Stars to scape this miserie?
Ift be the latter that such ill me ment,
I needes must think it was mine Enemie:
It was (indeed), thy selfe it was (Faire Witch)
That with thy beautie wrought me to be sich.
My wretched Stars to scape this miserie?
Ift be the latter that such ill me ment,
I needes must think it was mine Enemie:
It was (indeed), thy selfe it was (Faire Witch)
That with thy beautie wrought me to be sich.
Thou art too Faire (I see) for to be true,
And too too False for one that is so Faire:
Yet for my wrongs thou seemest not to rue,
Nor for my Crosses ought at All dost care:
And yet my Loue's more feruent still towards thee,
My sparks growne flames, my cinders bonfires bee.
And too too False for one that is so Faire:
Yet for my wrongs thou seemest not to rue,
Nor for my Crosses ought at All dost care:
And yet my Loue's more feruent still towards thee,
My sparks growne flames, my cinders bonfires bee.
Only I grieue my daies are at an end,
Fore I can of thee any fauour gaine:
And which is worse, I likely am to spend
All the Remainder, yet no Grace obtaine.
Vnhappie Pilgrim I, borne still to euill,
To shrine her for a Saint, who is a Deuill.
Fore I can of thee any fauour gaine:
And which is worse, I likely am to spend
All the Remainder, yet no Grace obtaine.
Vnhappie Pilgrim I, borne still to euill,
To shrine her for a Saint, who is a Deuill.
When Beautie sickneth, then Desire doth die,
Fauor doth vade most flouring in his prime,
Then Love doth ebbe, when flowes Aduersitie,
But Friendship bides out euery stormie Time.
Ah Alba I not doted haue on thee,
But lou'd thee deare, as deere, as deere might bee.
Fauor doth vade most flouring in his prime,
Then Love doth ebbe, when flowes Aduersitie,
But Friendship bides out euery stormie Time.
Ah Alba I not doted haue on thee,
But lou'd thee deare, as deere, as deere might bee.
Affection, (alwaies) either grounded is
On Vertue; (and Vertue nere peeuish showes)
Or else on Beautie; (counted chiefest blisse)
And Beautie praisde, (through Loue) more fairer growes:
I neuer Peruerse was, nor Sullen yet,
But praisde thy Beautie to mine vtmost wit.
On Vertue; (and Vertue nere peeuish showes)
Or else on Beautie; (counted chiefest blisse)
And Beautie praisde, (through Loue) more fairer growes:
I neuer Peruerse was, nor Sullen yet,
But praisde thy Beautie to mine vtmost wit.
To thee, I, both a Friend and Louer am,
Yet euery Louer is no Constant Friend,
But who a Friend in Nature is and Name,
As Louer true begins, and true doth end:
Thy truest Friend am I, more then another,
And vnto thee the faithfulst loyalst Louer.
Yet euery Louer is no Constant Friend,
But who a Friend in Nature is and Name,
As Louer true begins, and true doth end:
Thy truest Friend am I, more then another,
And vnto thee the faithfulst loyalst Louer.
Vertue (in me) Affection shall subdue,
Wisedome, all Lust, my Friendship sweetest Beautie,
Ile not be fickle, false, but constant, true,
Seruing thee still, with all respect of Dutie;
And when I shall be buried, dead and gone,
My Ghost shall (as thy Slaue) thee tend vpon.
Wisedome, all Lust, my Friendship sweetest Beautie,
Ile not be fickle, false, but constant, true,
Seruing thee still, with all respect of Dutie;
And when I shall be buried, dead and gone,
My Ghost shall (as thy Slaue) thee tend vpon.
Ah Speake then, shall these Torments I endure,
Of Bloody Thoughts, and nere expressed paine
Neuer remorse of stubborne thee procure?
And shall they breede (still) my eternall bane?
Yet grant me, things impossible to wish,
To feede Conceite, since that no hurt it is.
Of Bloody Thoughts, and nere expressed paine
Neuer remorse of stubborne thee procure?
And shall they breede (still) my eternall bane?
Yet grant me, things impossible to wish,
To feede Conceite, since that no hurt it is.
Then shalt thou see (through this I holde so deare)
Ile longe my life prolong, and Spirits spend,
And to my selfe that Creature none may heare,
Ile softlie call it Loue, till life shall end.
And if what I, thus whisper Any vrge,
Ile name it Honor, so my selfe to purge.
Ile longe my life prolong, and Spirits spend,
And to my selfe that Creature none may heare,
Ile softlie call it Loue, till life shall end.
And if what I, thus whisper Any vrge,
Ile name it Honor, so my selfe to purge.
May I but this sweete Contemplation holde,
I then shall liue of All men most content,
Taking more pleasure in my Thoughts though olde,
Then ere I did in youthly Actions spent.
Grant me this Grace, to thee tis matter small)
And all my Crosses Ile sweete blessing call.
I then shall liue of All men most content,
Taking more pleasure in my Thoughts though olde,
Then ere I did in youthly Actions spent.
Grant me this Grace, to thee tis matter small)
And all my Crosses Ile sweete blessing call.
Ah that tho'wldst daigne, this might be christned Loue,
That Fauour (as reward for it might be,
But I doe feare, I shall thee too much moue,
This ouer boldenes (Dearest) pardon me.
And let me hope one day some gentle power,
May turne to Sweete, this my most bitter Sower.
That Fauour (as reward for it might be,
But I doe feare, I shall thee too much moue,
This ouer boldenes (Dearest) pardon me.
And let me hope one day some gentle power,
May turne to Sweete, this my most bitter Sower.
Time was and is, and euer shall be still,
That I to honor thee will neuer spare,
But for to call it Loue or Pure Goodwill,
I neuer durst, although I seemde to dare,
Then luster me, to follow this my Vaine,
Flattering my selfe, although I nothing gaine.
That I to honor thee will neuer spare,
But for to call it Loue or Pure Goodwill,
I neuer durst, although I seemde to dare,
Then luster me, to follow this my Vaine,
Flattering my selfe, although I nothing gaine.
None pleased hath mine eyes, but Alba bright,
None but sweete Alba doth possesse my Hart,
Mine cares in Alba, onely take delight,
And this my Soule, from Alba nere shall part.
To follow thee, all Fortunes Ile forsake,
And vnto thee alone, my selfe betake.
None but sweete Alba doth possesse my Hart,
Mine cares in Alba, onely take delight,
And this my Soule, from Alba nere shall part.
To follow thee, all Fortunes Ile forsake,
And vnto thee alone, my selfe betake.
The Gods haue set such difference twixt our slate,
That all must be, pure Dewtie, Reuerence;
Nothing I must terme Love (such is my Fate,)
Except thou daine, therewith for to dispence.
And since I know that so thou dost command,
I condescend will to it out of hand.
That all must be, pure Dewtie, Reuerence;
Nothing I must terme Love (such is my Fate,)
Except thou daine, therewith for to dispence.
And since I know that so thou dost command,
I condescend will to it out of hand.
Yet my Vnspotted Thoughts my pining Corse,
My Discontented Life, let them obtaine
One blessed Fauour through thy kinde remorse,
Though they not merit least part of the same.
So I with Ioy shall end my wearie daies,
And dying, sound abroad thy nere dying Praise.
My Discontented Life, let them obtaine
One blessed Fauour through thy kinde remorse,
Though they not merit least part of the same.
So I with Ioy shall end my wearie daies,
And dying, sound abroad thy nere dying Praise.
The Conclusion of the last Part.
If
Vertuous Loue be Honor, and no Shame,
Let no man (causeles) seeke my chaste Desire,
To bridle in with base conceited raine,
Since Virtue kindled in my brest this fire:
The Wise (I hope) will no Exceptions take,
Nor Gainst my Loue, nor gainst these Toyes I make,
Let no man (causeles) seeke my chaste Desire,
To bridle in with base conceited raine,
Since Virtue kindled in my brest this fire:
The Wise (I hope) will no Exceptions take,
Nor Gainst my Loue, nor gainst these Toyes I make,
For by the Diall of Discretion sound,
Mine Actions all and Cariage I direct,
And fearefull am I, least I should be found,
T'haue done amisse, in any due respect.
(Ladie) I hope no line is here set downe,
Sauns awfull looking backe vnto your frowne.
Mine Actions all and Cariage I direct,
And fearefull am I, least I should be found,
T'haue done amisse, in any due respect.
(Ladie) I hope no line is here set downe,
Sauns awfull looking backe vnto your frowne.
No Worthlesse Thought doth lodge within my brest,
Since (as my Guides) I follow thy faire Eyes,
Sparkes of true Vertue in me now doe rest,
Infused by those beames in wondrous wise,
Those with an vncouth Flame set me on fire,
The rightest pathes of Honor to aspire.
Since (as my Guides) I follow thy faire Eyes,
Sparkes of true Vertue in me now doe rest,
Infused by those beames in wondrous wise,
Those with an vncouth Flame set me on fire,
The rightest pathes of Honor to aspire.
By these conducted to Eternall Ioy,
I hope for to be lifted vp to'th Skie,
From all Disgrace, from trouble and annoy,
Where, (of my selfe) I nere did mount so hie.
Be gracious then (Sweete Goddesse) of my Thought,
For thy power tis, doth make me soare aloft.
I hope for to be lifted vp to'th Skie,
From all Disgrace, from trouble and annoy,
Where, (of my selfe) I nere did mount so hie.
Be gracious then (Sweete Goddesse) of my Thought,
For thy power tis, doth make me soare aloft.
Il Disgratiato.
R. T. G.
| Alba. The Months Minde of a Melancholy Lover, diuided into three parts | |