All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet Being Sixty and three in Number. Collected into one Volume by the Author [i.e. John Taylor]: With sundry new Additions, corrected, reuised, and newly Imprinted |
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 | All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet |  |
Sonnet.
Like a decrepit wretch, deform'd and lame
My verse approaches to my dearest Dame
Whose dire disdaine, makes my laments her game
Whose scornfull eies adde fuell to my flame.
But whether shee, or I, are most too blame
I for attempting to exalt her fame
With fruitlesse Sonnets; which my wit did frame:
Or shee whose piercing lookes my heart o'r-came.
Her feature can both men and monsters tame
The gods, and fiends adore and dread her name
Whose matchlesse forme doth Citherea shame,
Whose cruell heart remaineth still the same
And in a word, I striue against the streame
My state's too low, and hers is too supreme.
My verse approaches to my dearest Dame
Whose dire disdaine, makes my laments her game
Whose scornfull eies adde fuell to my flame.
But whether shee, or I, are most too blame
I for attempting to exalt her fame
With fruitlesse Sonnets; which my wit did frame:
Or shee whose piercing lookes my heart o'r-came.
Her feature can both men and monsters tame
The gods, and fiends adore and dread her name
Whose matchlesse forme doth Citherea shame,
Whose cruell heart remaineth still the same
And in a word, I striue against the streame
My state's too low, and hers is too supreme.
Then since so scornefull is her high disdaine,
Since all my loue is but bestow'd in vaine
Curbe fancie then, with true discretions Reine,
Let reason cure my tor-tormenting paine,
Suppose I should at last, my suit attaine,
And then sit downe and count my losing gaine:
My haruest would be tares in stead of graine.
Then Ile no longer vexe my vexed braine
To seeke her loue, who ioyes when I complaine
No longer I, loues vassall will remaine,
I'l be no more of Cupids witlesse traine,
Whose partiall blindenesse hath so many slaine.
Proud Dame, whose brest my loue didst earst refrain
Despight loues lawes, I'le be no more thy swaine.
Since all my loue is but bestow'd in vaine
Curbe fancie then, with true discretions Reine,
Let reason cure my tor-tormenting paine,
Suppose I should at last, my suit attaine,
And then sit downe and count my losing gaine:
My haruest would be tares in stead of graine.
Then Ile no longer vexe my vexed braine
To seeke her loue, who ioyes when I complaine
No longer I, loues vassall will remaine,
I'l be no more of Cupids witlesse traine,
Whose partiall blindenesse hath so many slaine.
Proud Dame, whose brest my loue didst earst refrain
Despight loues lawes, I'le be no more thy swaine.
Thus like a man, whose wits were quite bereft him,
I found him mad with loue, and so I left him.
I found him mad with loue, and so I left him.
| All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet | |