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Tragicall Tales translated by Tvrbervile

In time of his troubles out of sundrie Italians, with the Argument and Lenuoye to eche Tale
  
  

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To his mistres, declaring his life only to depend of her lookes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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[149]

To his mistres, declaring his life only to depend of her lookes.

The Salamander cannot liue
without the help of flaming fire:
To bath his limmes in burning coales,
it is his glee and chiefe desire.
The litle fish doth loue the lake,
dame nature hath assigned him:
To liue no longer then he doth
amid the siluer channel swimme.
Chameleon feedes but on the ayre,
the lacke whereof is his decay:
These three doe perish out of hand,
take fire, flouds, and ayre away.
Iudge you (my deere) the danger then
of very force that must ensue:
Unto this careful heart of mine,
that cannot liue withouten you.
I am the fish, you are the flood,
my heart it is that hangs on hooke:
I cannot liue if you doe stoppe,
the floudhatch of your frendly brooke.
I silly Salamander die,
if you maintaine not frendships fire:
Quenche you the coale and you shal see
me pine for lack of my desire.
You are the pleasant breathing ayre,

150

and I your poore Chameleon,
Barre me your breath and out of hand
my life and sweete delight is gone.
Which sith tis so (good mistresse) then
doe saue my life to serue your turne
Let me haue ayre and water stil
let me your Salamander burne.
My death wil doe you litle good,
my life perhaps may pleasure you:
Rewe on my case and pitie him,
that sweares himself your seruant true,
I beare the badge within my brest,
wherin are blazde your colours braue:
Loue is the only liuery, that
I at your curteous hand doe craue.
I doe desire no greedy gaine,
I couet not the massye golde:
Embrace your seruant (mistres) then,
his wages wil be quickly tolde.
As you are faire so let me finde
your bountie equall to your face:
I cannot thinke that kinde so neere,
to beauties bower would rigor place,
Your comely hewe behight me hope,
your louely lookes allow mee life.
Your graue regard doth make me deeme,
you fellow to Vlisses wife,
Which if be true then happy I,

[150]

that so in loue my fancie set,
In you doth rest my life, my death,
by slaying me no gaine you get.
The noble minded Lion kils
no yeelding beast by crueltie,
And worthie dames delight to saue
their seruants liues by curtesie.