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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The Letter of Arnalte to Lucenda.
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 | A Small Treatise betwixt Arnalte and Lucenda Entituled The Evill-intreated Lover, Or The Melancholy Knight |  |
The Letter of Arnalte to Lucenda.
Those well-pen'd Lines that were compos'd by thee,Divine Lucenda, and addrest to me,
I have receiv'd, but I must confesse
With more content than now I can expresse;
For when they were presented to me, then
J deem'd my selfe the happiest of men:
But when I read them sorrow did affright
All ioy from me, and all sweete delight:
For being clos'd they promis'd me redresse,
But being open'd, nothing else exprest,
Vnlesse unkindnesse, which did overthrow
My expectations, throb my heart with woe,
By which I iudge there is more likely-hood
For future ills than for my present good:
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Such true delight as I ought to confesse;
For if I thinke thy favour to obtaine,
My torments thrive, and I grow rich in paine:
For by your writing you doe quite destroy
All hope of comfort, or delight some ioy.
My ills you say doe grieve you, wherefore then
Doe you expresse that which you doe not meane?
Why doe you publish, or with words proclaime,
What with your will you meane not to maintaine?
If so it were, that my afflictions they
Displeasing were, then might you truely say
What you maintain'd; and then you would retract
What you commit now both in word and fact.
Ah deare Lucenda, why doe you pretend
Not truely with your truely loving friend.
I have the name, but you commit the act;
I gaine the honour, you expresse the fact.
Truely I'de rather that my suff'rings were
Doubtfull unto thee, than that thou shouldst beare
Credit unto them, giving no redresse
Vnto my torments, or my wretchednesse.
You doe propose, deare love, to me that I
Should Court your favours very modestly:
If I could ease my selfe so freely well
As I can beare my Sorrowes, let me tell
Thee, dearest Mistris, I would never groane
Vnder the burthen of my griefe or moane;
My smarting paine with speed I would recure,
These grievous torments which I doe endure.
Now if you please (faire love) to succour me,
Or to allay my killing misery,
Let me intreat thee (Sweetest) not to daigne
Dispaire a triumph o're my Soule to gaine:
Neither permit grim Death to bathe his Dart
Within the crimson river of my heart:
Let it suffice that thou hast robbed me
Of the best part of life; sweete Lady see
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Which if you grant not, death will come in place;
For why, my sorrowes which doe paralell
Thy heavenly beauty, which doth all excell,
Th'are too heavy and insufferable,
I cannot beare them th'are intollerable.
This is the cause, I feeling of my Fate,
And how unkindly you it aggravate;
That J cannot reioyce, or dure to see
Another glader than my selfe to be:
For I doe wish that every one were us'd
With love as basely as I am abus'd:
And since my love doth daily still increase,
And that reward doth grant me no release,
I doe resolve unto some place to goe,
Ne're to returne; for this Ile let thee know,
That Death and Time in this my banishment,
Shall ease my cares, and kill sad languishment.
Now since you have bard up all hope from me,
Of speaking to thee, yet vouchsafe to see
Me e're I part; nor speake I this t'impaire
Thy bright renowne, as glorious and as faire
As Phœbus Raies, for let it not (sweete) be
In any place debar'd from company;
Or where suspition wanders but in sight
Of my deare sister, in whom you delight;
So shall you see my griefe, and eke behold
My blooming colour turn'd into the mould
Of pale-fac'd tawny, and all cheerefull grace
To be ecclips'd within my youthfull face;
And as bla ke grounds, they set off to the sight
Transparent colours, most of all the white.
So I being present, my pale hew will show
How fragrant Roses freshly bud and grow
In milke-white fields; I meane those Virgin plaines,
Your cheekes imbelisht with Carnation staines.
If this you grant, or else consent that I
Shall you behold with my unworthy eyes,
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Of thy poore vassall from all cruell smart,
And with that hap inrich my fortunes so,
That what want meanes I never more shall know.
What else to write I cannot tell, but this,
If you vouchsafe to grant me so much blisse,
As to permit me thy sweete face to see,
My selfe Ile prostrate with humility,
And kisse thy feete, and on my bended knee,
And eyes erected, ever honour thee.
| A Small Treatise betwixt Arnalte and Lucenda Entituled The Evill-intreated Lover, Or The Melancholy Knight | |