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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 | A Small Treatise betwixt Arnalte and Lucenda Entituled The Evill-intreated Lover, Or The Melancholy Knight |  |
Perhaps the aire of this sad song might keepe
Lucenda waking, drive away her sleepe;
Yet sure I am my plaints and sighing groanes
Could not awake her heart to heare my moanes,
Nor all my vowes, protests could her perswade,
Nor my laments her marble-breast invade,
Then seeing of my selfe to be neglected,
And that my service was of her rejected.
And that my sorrows over me did sway,
That I perforce was forc't for to obey
Unto their wills; for as they waxed great,
My pores did faile, and I grew wondrous weake;
And eke my hope was troubled in such wise,
That it did cause my tender weeping eyes
To raine such showers, that I at length became
Halfe blind with sorrow, waxing wondrous wane,
Disfigur'd pale; and this exceeded all,
I grew so desperate, that I 'gan to bawle
And raile against my wretched selfe, and say,
O wretched Caitiffe, where wou't thou away:
Stay haplesse man, whereto art thou become?
Or to what place arriv'd? where wou't thou runne?
Hast thou yet hope, why do'st thou not dispaire?
Or see you not that from you's banisht farre
Redresse or helpe? or that's impossible
To cure thy wounds, or ever make thee well?
How clearely doe these signes to thee presage
Thy present losse, and future ruinage,
Since thou hast rear'd by thy aspiring eye
Too high the Ladder of thy Loyalty?
For thou must looke to fall thence sooner downe,
Than mount the top, thy wishes there to crowne:
Thou art the man that must more ill endure,
For thou art he who of no hap art sure;
Slave to thy selfe, who do'st abhorre to live,
Yet not to wish, for thereto scope you give.
What lucklesse Planet raigned at thy Birth?
What fatall Omen was presag'd on earth?
I doe perceive that by degrees you waste,
And that desire will you o're-come at last.
Hast not thou then great reason for to crave
That Death would lay thee in a silent grave?
Yet though you wish't, or that for ease you chus't
Vnto your hart, yet ought you to refus't,
Thereby to shun the losse thou must sustaine,
And flye perdition which the soule may gaine.
Then out I cry'd, I have so great a taske,
I know not what to chuse, to say, or aske.
Oh my forsaken soule, why do'st possesse
A habitation so full of wretchednesse?
And thou my eye, enemy to my heart,
Immortall foe, why did'st thou me convert
To Cupids Doctrine? Did I e're give cause
That thou should'st me submit to loves false Lawes?
Thou wer't unwitting, his rewards are vaine,
When his imployments are too full of paine.
Yet did you know that he who truely lov'd,
If life he kept, from torments never mov'd.
Thou knew'st th'impuissance: oh to what intent
Did'st yeeld thy selfe unto his government?
Reply you may that you had no more power
To disobey, than I have at this houre
Will to forget her; what ills are these I see
That thus afflict, torment, and torture me?
Oh haplesse man! even as thy forces faile,
So doe thy sorrows over thee prevaile.
For at this present by thy acts thou thought'st
T'enrich thy mind, but thou alas canst nought:
For which attempt thou wilt receive great shame,
Thy life's endanger'd, injur'd is thy fame:
For these requitalls thou ought'st sooner grieve,
Than laud her kindnesse, or her praises give.
But since it's thus, let patience recompense
Thy paines, and end the warre thou hast commenst,
And bide the brunts the which thou dost attend,
For they hereafter will more fury lend.
Though now th'are easie, very light to beare,
Yet in the end continuance will out-weare
Thy soule with griefe, and toyle thy understanding.
If this asswage not, or be a disbanding,
Why summon reason, and appeale if she
Assist thee not, or else abandons thee.
Bewaile thy cares, and ope the gates then wide,
And welcome death; for at this present tide
Thou may'st not thinke to gaine the remedy,
Which sence and reason unto thee deny.
Lucenda waking, drive away her sleepe;
Yet sure I am my plaints and sighing groanes
Could not awake her heart to heare my moanes,
Nor all my vowes, protests could her perswade,
Nor my laments her marble-breast invade,
Then seeing of my selfe to be neglected,
And that my service was of her rejected.
And that my sorrows over me did sway,
That I perforce was forc't for to obey
Unto their wills; for as they waxed great,
My pores did faile, and I grew wondrous weake;
And eke my hope was troubled in such wise,
That it did cause my tender weeping eyes
To raine such showers, that I at length became
Halfe blind with sorrow, waxing wondrous wane,
Disfigur'd pale; and this exceeded all,
I grew so desperate, that I 'gan to bawle
And raile against my wretched selfe, and say,
O wretched Caitiffe, where wou't thou away:
Stay haplesse man, whereto art thou become?
Or to what place arriv'd? where wou't thou runne?
Hast thou yet hope, why do'st thou not dispaire?
Or see you not that from you's banisht farre
34
To cure thy wounds, or ever make thee well?
How clearely doe these signes to thee presage
Thy present losse, and future ruinage,
Since thou hast rear'd by thy aspiring eye
Too high the Ladder of thy Loyalty?
For thou must looke to fall thence sooner downe,
Than mount the top, thy wishes there to crowne:
Thou art the man that must more ill endure,
For thou art he who of no hap art sure;
Slave to thy selfe, who do'st abhorre to live,
Yet not to wish, for thereto scope you give.
What lucklesse Planet raigned at thy Birth?
What fatall Omen was presag'd on earth?
I doe perceive that by degrees you waste,
And that desire will you o're-come at last.
Hast not thou then great reason for to crave
That Death would lay thee in a silent grave?
Yet though you wish't, or that for ease you chus't
Vnto your hart, yet ought you to refus't,
Thereby to shun the losse thou must sustaine,
And flye perdition which the soule may gaine.
Then out I cry'd, I have so great a taske,
I know not what to chuse, to say, or aske.
Oh my forsaken soule, why do'st possesse
A habitation so full of wretchednesse?
And thou my eye, enemy to my heart,
Immortall foe, why did'st thou me convert
To Cupids Doctrine? Did I e're give cause
That thou should'st me submit to loves false Lawes?
Thou wer't unwitting, his rewards are vaine,
When his imployments are too full of paine.
Yet did you know that he who truely lov'd,
If life he kept, from torments never mov'd.
Thou knew'st th'impuissance: oh to what intent
Did'st yeeld thy selfe unto his government?
Reply you may that you had no more power
To disobey, than I have at this houre
35
That thus afflict, torment, and torture me?
Oh haplesse man! even as thy forces faile,
So doe thy sorrows over thee prevaile.
For at this present by thy acts thou thought'st
T'enrich thy mind, but thou alas canst nought:
For which attempt thou wilt receive great shame,
Thy life's endanger'd, injur'd is thy fame:
For these requitalls thou ought'st sooner grieve,
Than laud her kindnesse, or her praises give.
But since it's thus, let patience recompense
Thy paines, and end the warre thou hast commenst,
And bide the brunts the which thou dost attend,
For they hereafter will more fury lend.
Though now th'are easie, very light to beare,
Yet in the end continuance will out-weare
Thy soule with griefe, and toyle thy understanding.
If this asswage not, or be a disbanding,
Why summon reason, and appeale if she
Assist thee not, or else abandons thee.
Bewaile thy cares, and ope the gates then wide,
And welcome death; for at this present tide
Thou may'st not thinke to gaine the remedy,
Which sence and reason unto thee deny.
| A Small Treatise betwixt Arnalte and Lucenda Entituled The Evill-intreated Lover, Or The Melancholy Knight | |