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A pleasaunte Laborinth called Churchyardes Chance

framed on Fancies, uttered with verses, and writtee[n] to giue solace to eury well disposed mynde: wherein not withstanding are many heauie Epitaphes, sad and sorowfull discourses and sutche a multitude of other honest pastymes for the season (and passages of witte) that the reader therein maie thinke his tyme well bestowed. All whiche workes for the pleasure of the worlde, and recreation of the worthie, and dedicated to the right honourable sir Thomas Bromley, Knight, Lorde Chancelour of Englande [by Thomas Churchyard]
 

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A speciall trifle on a fickle woman.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

A speciall trifle on a fickle woman.

When pleasure could no more desire, & will his wish had won,
When fancie past the flaming fire, and loue his race had ron:
Whē eury ioy ye hart would haue, in gladsom brest was foūd

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And nothing lackte that loue could craue, to salue a festred wound.
When suites were hanged on ye hedge, and plaints were out of place,
And liking great gaue faith in pledge, ye pains should purches grace:
Naie rather when the fruite was had, that growes on top of tree,
And claspyng hande tooke by good happ, the Honie from the Bee:
And eight yeres trothe was throughly tried, a proffe not cōmon sure,
(That any hauke the pearche would bide, or like so long on lure:)
Then fickle freaks made Hagard soer, and shakte of bells in spite,
And plainly ment to come no more, for Gill would plaie the Kite.
Her freend but past the fomyng seas, and hence a space remainde,
But Gill would needs to take her ease, for pleasure be retainde:
Another where, O iudge my freends, what wrong I suffer here,
And let the dealyngs of vs bothe, before the worlde appere.
FINIS.