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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Belisa to Arnalte. |
 | A Small Treatise betwixt Arnalte and Lucenda Entituled The Evill-intreated Lover, Or The Melancholy Knight |  |
Belisa to Arnalte.
O dearest Brother, for Ioves sake I prayNo longer hide thy sorrows, now display
The very truth, and satisfaction give
To my requests, and shew me why you grieve:
For why so oft as I have thee demanded,
Thou still found'st figmens that thy selfe hadst fain'd:
Consider if the truth you doe deny,
Or paliate from me the verity;
The love I beare thee, may with my regreets
Be intermixt, and so at odds be set.
That y'are my debtor you your selfe confesse,
If that I love thee, thou maintain'st no lesse,
Returning love for love, and mutually
In your affections make a sympathy:
Reciprocall affection you returne,
To recompense my kindnesse so both burne
In mutuall flames of that same sacred fire,
Which Iove in breasts consanguin'd doth inspire.
But by your words and speech you doe declaime
That which in actions you doe not maintaine.
You know full well that such pretences ought
To be omitted, not to thinke such thoughts.
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The secretary-ship of all thy woe:
For to whose trust ought you such things confide,
If not to mine, whose loyalty y'ave tride?
For sure you are, if you desire death,
That I doe crave as soone to lose my breath.
If you flye pleasures, and abhorre their sight,
Mournings please me, and therein I delight.
If care and travaile you affect or love,
Rest I dispise, for it doth tedious prove.
Thus your afflictions, and my ills alike,
Torment one heart, with tortures on it strike.
Now if you are advis'd, resolv'd to calme
Those wherling surges, safely steere the helme;
By whose assistance can you't easier doe,
Than by her helpe, who for your hap doth sue?
Your griefes t'unload, if that you daigne or please,
We'le joyntly beare them, so shall you have ease.
If't be your pleasure that we waile and weepe,
We'le nought else doe, our eyes in teares we'le steepe.
Shall we each other comfort, moane your smart?
I am content, be't so with all my heart.
Will y'ave it hidden, or at least conceal'd?
We'le keepe it close, it shall not be reveal'd.
Jf you desire some helpe for to effect,
To ease your selfe, I will it not neglect.
Then shew not such small love to her I pray,
Whose chiefe observance is thee to obey.
Believe not that your flye pretences can
O're-come my judgement, though you are a man.
Your sighes betray you, and they manifest,
What of your selfe you strive not to confesse:
Reason doth tell, that love ought not to be
Lesse in expression than fraternity.
Death would most pleasing be, should I my life
Lose for to ease thee, rid thee out of strife:
For I perceive thy sufferings are so strong,
The'le cut thee off, not let thee live too long.
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Fortune proves crosse, unlucky, and unkind
Vnto her Darlings; to the Caitiffe she's
The chiefest hope to ease his miseries.
If so unstedfast she's, so variable,
Unconstant, wherling, never still unstable,
And eke so fickle, that her Minions need
Not blaze her favours, or her noble deeds;
Ne're doubt her kindnesse, doe not too much care,
Of her good-will I wish you not dispaire.
Her wheele still, turnes, and dayly she imparts
Some accidents to one or others hearts.
The saddest man you know doth mitigate
His vexing sorrow, if he doe't relate
Vnto his friend; for through the recreation
Of words, oft-times torments lose their station.
Sorrow doth inward swell if but conceal'd,
But if disclos'd, it may perhaps be heal'd:
Thus if the Keyes of these my counsells may
Vnlocke thy helps, and thereto make thee way,
Refuse them not; or doe you take delight
On your afflictions to thinke day and night,
Your precious time wastfully expending
By parlying to your selfe, yet no good tending?
I know (beleeve me) that the hidden flame
Which you reveale not, it doth but enflame
Thy soule with torments, and that obscur'd fire
Doth burne thy heart with coales of hot desire:
Whereas the sorrows which you did expresse,
Through utterment their paine is growne more lesse
In what degree thy torments be, or are,
Jn their concealement there's more danger farre
Than to detect them, 'specially to me,
Who in my heart doe beare and owe to thee
More love and friendship than my tongue can shew,
Or words expresse, or thoughts conceive to know.
Now fearing least that I too farre presume,
J'le at this present cease to importune
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And end discourse, and to my words give rest.
| A Small Treatise betwixt Arnalte and Lucenda Entituled The Evill-intreated Lover, Or The Melancholy Knight | |