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 Lucenda. |
 | A Small Treatise betwixt Arnalte and Lucenda Entituled The Evill-intreated Lover, Or The Melancholy Knight |  |
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Belisa to Lucenda.
Courteous Lucenda, vertues chiefest heire,Our Sexes glory, for there's none so faire:
Oh let thy goodnesse as transparent be,
As those bright beames which in your eyes we see:
Thy wonted prudence and thy wisedome use,
Be not offended, all distaste refuse;
Oh taxe me not, although I should offend
Thee with my words, my dearest, dearest friend.
Deare taxe me not of indiscretion,
For any word the which my trembling tongue
Shall utter to thee, if you apprehend
Aright my meaning, I shall be esteem'd
And prais'd, I hope rather, then to be told
That I presume, offend, or am too bold:
And that the rather, 'cause anothers griefe
Emboldneth me to plead for his reliefe.
Give eare Lucenda, and you then shall know,
That it's long since that sorrow, paine, and woe
Thrives with my brother, and the sacred Lampe
Of his rich health, burnes smothering in a dampe:
So that all helpe which we to him apply
Effects no cure, it proveth contrary.
Now knowing this, and seeing that the date
Of his sicke life was e'ne exterminate
Through vehement paine, and cruell killing smart,
Which rents his breast, and teares in two his heart;
Him I besought with sighes, and teares, and cryes,
For to reveale, discover to my eyes
His hidden passions, which did e'ne exhale
His fainting breath (to puffe up Charons saile)
But all I did could not, alacke, prevaile;
He still was silent, though I weepe or waile.
But I at length through slye suspition found,
Of all his cares the true and perfect ground:
And still inquiring, I did finde this out,
(Conjecture, aiding, and distrustfull doubt)
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His dying heart, with blinde loves torments rackt:
And eke the meanes consisteth friend in thee
To heale his paine, release, and set him free.
Now to assure your selfe that all is true
Which I expresse, declare, and tell to you,
No other proofe you neede, but the complaints
I move, of him whose soule with sorrow faints.
Had I not seene the dang'rous storme wherein
His life's nigh ship-wrack't, I would not have bin
So unadvised rash, for to complaine
Of the afflictions which he doth sustaine.
A great desire I moreover have
To doe him service, and his life to save;
For if my will resist, why straight I finde,
His sad disasters to divert my minde,
And my true love, and unfeign'd affection,
If that I erre grants me a true direction:
And this I vow, could but my life release
Him from afflictions, to his heart give ease,
I'de not respect it, I would lay it downe,
His wounded heart with future blisse to crowne.
You know the fruit the last Plague did us yeeld,
How Charon wasted to th'Elisian fields
Our honour'd Parents; will you likewise act
A Tragedy as grievous, and as blacke,
As full of horrour, to the utter ruine
Of all our Linage, and our house undoing?
Yet if so cruell you your selfe expresse,
You will receive small praise, you must confesse,
Avouch I can, and this affirme indeed,
If you deny to helpe him now in need,
Care-freeing death will to his paine give rest,
And ease his life, which now is but opprest.
Consider but how deepely you are bound?
Vnto his love, which is most pure and sound:
For though you him disdaine, his suit neglect,
Still, still he loves you, owes you all respect.
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Full of delight, and care he quiet deemes,
For there's not any one so well acquainted
With your Conditions, with unkindnesse tainted.
You are beholding in a high degree,
Unto his faithfull love and constancy.
Nor is this all, for it doth plaine appeare
He doth respect your honour, truely feare
To taxe your worth, for he with pleasure fain's
To undergoe his sorrowes and his paines:
And though his burthen might fit Atlas backe,
With constancy he beares the heavy packe.
Then doe not daigne to let such loyalty
To faile or perish, unrewarded dye;
Which if you suffer, then the Sisters three,
The Goddesses of Mortalls destinies,
They'le cut his thred, and so he'le end his daies
To your dishonour, his ne're dying praise:
Since now you may dis-ranke the mighty bands
Of his strong passions, quench the fiery brands
Of burning love, if onely you will daigne
To send some Lines, subscribed with your name;
For Loves sake grant it, and you then shall have
Of me your friend a most submissive slave.
| A Small Treatise betwixt Arnalte and Lucenda Entituled The Evill-intreated Lover, Or The Melancholy Knight | |