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 |
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Arnalte to Lucenda being disguis'd. |
 | A Small Treatise betwixt Arnalte and Lucenda Entituled The Evill-intreated Lover, Or The Melancholy Knight |  |
Arnalte to Lucenda being disguis'd.
Renowned Lady, famous by the NameOf faire Lucenda, which you truely claime;
Had I th'Elixer of all humane wit,
Or were my tongue with Gold or Silver tipt:
Were I compos'd of Rethorick, could my words
Sound forth more sweetnesse than the true accords
Of Lutes, or Harps, or might my Genius claime
Precedency of smooth'd-tongu'd Tullies fame,
Yet were my words too meane I must confesse,
For your attention, sweetest I professe;
Not able for to counterpoise the grace
Which doth adorne your Angelick face!
For these same Reasons let me (Sweet) intreat
Thee not to heed what that my tongue shall speake;
For had I (Fairest) but such skill to plaine
Of thy unkindnesse, at hast might to paine
My yeelding heart, I'de justly then declare
My selfe as learned as y'are beauteous faire:
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Th'abundance of my sighs, whose cruell smart
At this same instant I present to thee;
That of my paine they may affirmers be.
J doe not know what gaine you hope to get
Out of my losse, what good you doe expect
From my ill hap, for J have let you know
By my sad Lines, that J my life doe owe
Unto thee Lady by my misery,
Exprest my selfe sole yours untill I die:
Yet arm'd with rage, dispightfully you tor'd
My sad Epistle, wherein I implor'd
Thee to release me from that anxious paine
Which thou hast caus'd me (Fairest) to sustaine.
You ought t'have given leave unto my Lines
T'have done their message, by which my designes
You might have knowne, and how in passions I
Have ever liv'd, since first of thee my eye
(Guided by Fate) so faire a prospect gain'd,
That to thy selfe I finde my heart enchain'd:
Persevere not I pray so vehemently,
Nor be not thus resolv'd; alas for why?
The cloudie mists of base report will staine
The lively glosse of your renowned fame.
Nor will your fame alone endamag'd be,
For I shall suffer through your tyranny,
And lose a jemme priz'd beyond all wealth,
(Mans chiefest hap) the enjoyment of my health:
Where wilt thou finde excuse, whose force may serve
Thee to acquit of what thou dost deserve?
Or warrantise thee too, too cruell action
Of these strange acts, or their offending fashion.
Thou hear'st the anguish with the which my tongue
Doth crave redresse, for my heart-killing wrong:
Full well you know that Vertues differ farre
From rigorous forces; how in kind they are
Unlike each other, that you cannot be
Vertuous, if cruell; kind, if harsh to me;
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Unlesse you gracious courtesie retaine:
Then since it in your gracious power doth lye,
With one poore word fully to satisfie
And recompence my service, cleare the shot
Of all my paines, the word denie me not;
For I no greater hap desire to gaine,
Than that by your consent I may proclaime
My selfe your servant, for so honour'd I
My ills receiv'd from thee may satisfie:
Speake then thou Non-such of thy sexe, for why,
I'me rapt with wonder, since that thy reply
Is still protracted; let thy Organ-voyce
Pronounce some comfort, and my soule rejoyce.
Doe not consent (deare heart) to suffer me
With tediousnesse still to solicite thee:
Behold my sighs, my teares, how they expresse
The weaknesse of my might, whose edifice
So slightly's built, and by the combate rude
Which you deliver, and is still pursu'd,
So much is shaken, that's more apt to fall,
Then prove a Fortresse to my life in thrall.
Why standst thou mute, why make you no reply?
Oh tune thy tongue, whose pleasing melody
Doth farre transcend the sweet harmonious straines
Of well-touch'd Lutes, compos'd by Musicks paines.
Perhaps you thinke your answer will defame
Your reputation, or your honour staine;
Or else those honey-words the which distill
From 'twixt your lipps, whose Tones with Musick fill
My ravisht eares, at such a rate you prize,
That you beleeve that they will scandalize
Your spotlesse credit, should you let them slip
Into my eares from 'twixt your Rose-leav'd lips:
If so, take heed lest master'd with conceit,
Your selfe you wrong not, or too much forget:
For certainly 'twill to your shame redound,
Not to your glory, if you me confound.
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Of cruell murdresse the abhorred name;
Doe not, I prethee, for so small a price
Lose thy true servant, and his services:
What shall I say, what shall I else repeat,
To make thee certaine of my paine most great?
My tongue wants words my inward griefes to shew,
I want expression to declare my woe
Sure I was borne not it to certifie,
But to be certaine of my misery:
Having beene taught of her to grieve and plaine,
Then to finde ease for my afflicting paine.
Now since my will, and your excelling worth
Have not an equall measure, none of both,
Thrice Noble Lady, I'le cease t'importune
Your honour'd selfe, nor yet with words presume
You to disquiet; let it then suffice
That thou hast seene through prospect of thy eyes,
That it from me expected hope you banish,
My life will end, which now doth pine and languish
Then having scarcely finish'd these my words,
With trembling voice this answer she affords.
| A Small Treatise betwixt Arnalte and Lucenda Entituled The Evill-intreated Lover, Or The Melancholy Knight | |