University of Virginia Library

[Dorus, tell me, where is thy wonted motion]

Dicus. Dorus
Dicus.
Dorus, tell me, where is thy wonted motion
To make these woods resounde thy lamentation?
Thy sainte is dead, or dead is thy devotion.
For who doth holde his love in estimation,
To witnes, that he thinkes his thoughts delicious,
Thinks to make ech thing badge of his sweet passion.

Dorus.
But what doth make thee Dicus so suspicious
Of my due faith, which needs must be immutable?
Who others vertue doubt, themselves are vicious.
Not so; although my mettall were most mutable,
Her beames have wrought therin most faire impression:
To such a force some chaunge were nothing sutable.

Dicus.
The harte well set doth never shunne confession:
If noble be thy bandes, make them notorious:
Silence doth seeme the maske of base oppression.
Who glories in his love, doth make Love glorious:
But who doth feare, or bideth muet wilfully,
Showes, guilty harte doth deeme his state opprobrious.
Thou then, that framste both words & voice most skilfully,
Yeeld to our eares a sweet and sound relation,
If Love tooke thee by force, or caught thee guilefully.

Dorus.
If Sunnie beames shame heav'nly habitation;
If three-leav'd grasse seeme to the sheepe unsavorie,
Then base and sower is Loves most high vocation.
Or if sheepes cries can helpe the Sunnes owne braverie,
Then may I hope, my pipe may have abilitie,
To helpe her praise, who decks me in her slaverie.
No, no: no wordes ennoble selfe-nobilitie.
As for your doubts; her voice was it deceaved me,
Her eye the force beyond all possibilitie.

Dicus.
Thy words well voic'd, well gra'ste had almost heaved me
Quite from my selfe to love Loves contemplation;
Till of these thoughts thy sodaine ende bereaved me.
Goe on therefore, and tell us, by what fashion
In thy owne proofe he gets so straunge possession,
And how possest he strengthens his invasion?

Dorus.
Sight is his roote, in thought is his progression,
His childhood woonder, prenticeship attention,
His youth delight, his age the soules oppression:
Doubte is his sleepe, he waketh in invention;
Fancie his foode, his clothing is of carefulnes;
Beautie his boote, his play lovers dissention:
His eyes are curious search, but vailde with warefulnesse:
His wings desire oft clipt with desperation:
Largesse his hands could never skill of sparefulnesse.
But how he doth by might, or by persuasion
To conquere, and his conquest how to ratifie,
Experience doubts, and schooles holde disputation.

Dicus.
But so thy sheepe may thy good wishes satisfie
With large encrease, and wooll of fine perfection,
So she thy love, her eyes thy eyes may gratifie,
As thou wilt give our soules a deare refection,
By telling how she was, how now she framed is
To helpe, or hurt in thee her owne infection.

Dorus.
Blest be the name, wherewith my mistres named is:
Whose wounds are salves, whose yokes please more then pleasure doth:
Her staines are beames; vertue the fault she blamed is.
The hart, eye, eare here onely find his treasure doth:
All numbring artes her endlesse graces number not:
Time, place, life, wit scarcely her rare gifts measure doth.
Is she in rage? so is the Sunne in sommer hot,
Yet harvest brings. Doth she alas absent herselfe?
The Sunne is hid; his kindly shadows cumber not.
But when to give some grace she doth content herselfe,
O then it shines; then are the heav'ns distributed,
And Venus seemes, to make up her, she spent herselfe.
Thus then (I say) my mischiefes have contributed
A greater good by her divine reflection;
My harmes to me, my blisse to her attributed,
Thus she is framde: her eyes are my direction;
Her love my life; her anger my destruction.
Lastly what so she is, that's my protection.

Dicus.
Thy safetie sure is wrapped in destruction:
For that construction thine owne wordes do beare.
A man to feare a womans moodie eye,
Makes Reason lie a slave to servile Sense.
A weake defence where weakenesse is thy force:
So is remorse in follie dearely bought.

Dorus.
If I had thought to heare blasphemous wordes,
My brest to swords, my soule to hell have solde
I rather would, then thus mine eares defile
With words so vile, which viler breath doth breed.
O heards take heed; for I a woolfe have found;
Who hunting round the strongest for to kill,
His breast doth fill with earth of others joyes,
And loden so puls downe, puld downe destroyes.
O sheepheards boyes, eschue these tongues of venome,
Which do envenome both the soule and senses.
Our best defenses are to flie these adders.
O tongues like ladders made to clime dishonour,
Who judge that honour, which hath scope to slander.

Dicus.
Dorus you wander farre in great reproches;
So love encroches on your charmed reason,
But it is season for to end our singing.
Such anger bringing: as for me, my fancie
In sicke-mans frenzie rather takes compassion,
Then rage for rage: rather my wish I send to thee,
Thou soone may have some helpe, or change of passion.
She oft her lookes, the starres her favour bend to thee:
Fortune store, Nature health, Love grant perswasion.
A quiet mind none but thy selfe can lend to thee,
Thus I commend to thee all our former love,

Dorus.
Well do I prove, errour lies oft in zeale,
Yet it is seale, though errour, of true hart.
Nought could impart such heates to friendly mind.
But for to find thy words did her disgrace,
Whose onely face the little heaven is,
Which who doth misse his eyes are but delusions,
Barr'd from their chiefest object of delightfulnesse,
Throwne on this earth the Chaos of confusions.
As for thy wish to my enraged spitefulnesse,
The lovely blowne with rare reward, my prayer is
Thou mayest love her that I may see thy sightfulnesse.
The quiet mind (whereof my selfe empairer is,
As thou doest thinke) should most of all disquiet me
Without her love, then any mind who fairer is.
Her onely cure from surfet-woes can diet me:
She holdes the ballance of my contentation:
Her cleared eyes, nought els, in stormes can quiet me.
Nay rather then my ease discontentation
Should breed to her, let me for aye dejected be
From any joy, which might her griefe occasion.
With so sweete plagues my happie harmes infected be:
Paine willes me die, yet will of death I mortifie:
For though life irkes, in life my loves protected be.
Thus for ech change my changelesse hart I fortifie.