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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Lucenda to Belisa.
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 | A Small Treatise betwixt Arnalte and Lucenda Entituled The Evill-intreated Lover, Or The Melancholy Knight |  |
Lucenda to Belisa.
Deare friend Belisa, let not any doubtPossesse thy thoughts, suspition banish out;
Nor doe not thinke that thou shalt taxed be
For any thing thou hast reveal'd to me:
Nor is thy honour blemish't, or thy fame
So much as spotted with a smutch or staine:
It is as pure as the Pirenian snow,
As bright as Lillies in their milke-white showes.
This to affirme, I my Conscience call,
And thy renowne well knowne in generall.
Put case y'ad wrong'd me with your passed words,
Your bashfulnesse and modesty affords
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For your deare brother, with affliction torne,
Than to excuse the fault that's not committed,
But 'tis your goodnesse, and you ought be pitty'd.
Oh how it grieves me that my answer can't
Yeeld thee no comfort, or wish't solace grant!
I make no question of thy brothers paine,
And lesse I wonder that for him you plaine.
Now if he will, what you doe say he will,
That is, consent my minde for to fulfill,
Himselfe shall act it, but provided this,
That to my worth it no dishonour is:
For I as much my honour must respect,
As you his life; (nor I his life neglect)
For well you know, if Ladies doe consent
Vnto th'allurings, and the blandishment
Of sighing Lovers, then their fame will be
Ecclips'd in Clouds of shamefull infamy.
Oh doe not crave that I should act that which
Your selfe would shunne: (our honours prejudice)
Are you unwitting of the sacred light
Of my pure vertues, would grow darke as night,
Should I enflame with my pure Virgin fire
The waxen Taper of the hot desire
Of thy deare brother? would to God that this
Thou hadst not mention'd, since so grave it is.
Alas, alas, how oftentimes have I
Wish't this my beauty were deformity?
How oft have I, when I have beene alone,
Bewayld his teares with teares, & moan'd his moan?
Since that his thoughts doe mount, and aime so high,
That they e'ne reach impossibility,
As great a mind I have, as much desire
Him to assist, as you have to require:
And if that ought his safety could procure,
My Fame exempted, I would it endure:
But since my losse must prove to be his gaine,
I cannot helpe him, would I ne're so faine.
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For his hard chance, yet cannot him relieve.
Now if my answer doe not satisfie
Thy expectations, doe not taxe me, why?
There is no fault in me, my honour blame;
For could I helpe him I would doe the same.
Oh taxe me not Belisa of ill-will:
Nor doe thou blame me, I have done no ill.
| A Small Treatise betwixt Arnalte and Lucenda Entituled The Evill-intreated Lover, Or The Melancholy Knight | |