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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 | A Small Treatise betwixt Arnalte and Lucenda Entituled The Evill-intreated Lover, Or The Melancholy Knight |  |
A Letter of Arnalte to Lucenda.
Mirrour of Women, Natures chiefest iewell,Oh thou whose eyes are wanton Cupids fewell,
Beauties Idea, sweete perfections grace,
For all perfections harbour in thy face.
Pardon my faults, oh doe not on me frowne,
But with thy favour my expectance crowne:
Deny me not thy mercy, but vouchsafe
For to protect me, and to keepe me safe.
I must confesse that I have iniur'd thee;
Yet have compassion on my misery:
And Lady, though for peace J intercede
In time of warre, or for thy pitty plead,
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It in'll part, since I this suite doe make:
Rather t'esteeme thy vertue than the crime
That's perpetrated 'gainst thee most divine
And glorious creature; for your eyes they have
A secret power how to kill or save.
Then since it in your gracious power doth lye
To kill, or save; oh helpe, or else I dye.
As for the chance that lately did befall
Thy livelesse Husband, I great Iove doe call
To witnesse, how it grieves me; for why, best
He knowes what thoughts doe harbour in my brest
Yet though it grieve me for the sake of him,
Sweete in respect of thee 'thas pleasing bin:
For had I not (faire love) offended thee,
Thou couldst not, couldst not have absolved me,
Shewing the vertue of forgiving, which
Most brightly doth thy purest minde inrich:
Now to the end it may be manifest,
And to the world perspicuously exprest
That thou forgiv'st me, let thy sorrowes be
Govern'd by reason, not extremity.
Jf otherwise thou dost lament or plaine,
Thou'lt taxe thy credit, and receive great blame.
Oh then, oh then deny me not this pleasure,
By farre transcending India's golden treasure:
Since by the purchase we may both remaine
Content, and I for ever freed from paine;
Shewing thy pitty and thy mercy to
The man, to whom thou oughtst for pardon sue.
Alas, alas, I know thou art so sad,
That J doe doubt to gaine, in that regard,
The hap I wish for; since that in the time,
When as thou wert more likely to be mine
Than now thou art, J never could arrive
Vnto the port to which my thoughts did drive;
Although, deare heart, I felt more stronger gailes
From thy milde favours, which imbreath'd my sailes;
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That thing of thee which you shall not desire:
For should my paines inforce me to transgresse,
My feares shall straight oppose my wilfulnesse;
Yet if you will direct your course, and saile
By Reasons Compasse, you will hardly faile
T'account your selfe rather a foe to be
Vnto your selfe, than not a friend to me.
For say I've slaine thy husband: why his death
Hath stopt the passage but of one mans breath:
But you, who have so many murder'd, ne're
Didst yet repent, or shed for one a teare.
Thus thinke of me, as thou wouldst others have
To iudge of thee, although I am thy slave;
Which if you grant, I soone shall feele m'offence
To be remitted with large recompence.
Thy deceas'd husband hath so wounded me,
That of my health the Doctors disagree;
Yet spight of Fortune, or her utmost hate,
Or all th'afflictions of my cruell fate,
I dread no danger, for my outward smart
Is farre unlike the suff'rings of my heart:
For 'tis long since (deare love) that Cupids dart,
Headed with thy bright eyes, have pierc't my heart,
And made so large an Orifice, that those
Grand wounds J suffer'd from the smarting blowes
Of vanquish'd Yerso, seeme, alas, to be
But petty scratches, wholly disagree
From the condition of my inward paine,
Whose cruell tortures doth my heart inflame
With burning ardour, that it doth exceed
My outward hurts; for loves doth inward bleed.
Thus I doe muster daily in my braine
Ten thousand thoughts; I also entertaine
As many fancies, which my thoughts controule,
Whose suddaine discord wracks my wavering soule:
Yet 'mongst so many, there's but one, the which
Doth my sad heart with future hope inrich:
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Most constant faith, and faithfull loyalty
May be most certaine; yet (sweet friend) before
I doe rehearse it, let me thee implore,
For to consider that it is in vaine,
To thinke by teares thy husband to regaine:
For what death seizes with his mortall hand,
It's meerely lost, no force can him withstand:
For 'tis most certaine, neither art or skill,
Honour, or goodnesse, can prevent the ill
Of our malignant Starres, nor birth, or state
Divert the Omen of our dying Fate.
Therefore ne're hope for to recall to life
Yerso, to whom thou lately wert a wife,
But rather take my counsaile, and replant
That love in me, which you to him did grant:
For since I've tane him from thee, if you please
I will be yours, and your griefes appease.
Yet if his love hath so blind-folded thee,
Or so obscur'd your judgement, not to see
How I deserve, or thinke I am not fit
T'injoy thy love, nor that I merit it:
Oh be not so opiniate, nor believe
Thy judgement so but let some others give
Thee better counsaile, for alas I doubt
Yerso's sad chance hath chac'd all reason out:
Then shall you see how your resolves agree
With your friends counsailes, as concerning me,
Yet, under favour, I must tell you, that
He doth deserve, who hath had such good hap
And power to vanquish him, who had the name
Of thy deare husband, justly for to claime
All rights and titles which he did possesse,
Injoying thee, thou cause of my distresse.
As for my birth, my honour or my state,
My parentage, it's needlesse to relate:
In vaine it were rare Paragon to shew't,
Since you faire love as well as I doe know't.
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Not yet deserv'd the favour that I crave,
Which is to have thee for to be my Wife,
And fairest Spouse, who ever as my life
I meane to cherish, you your selfe shall be
The faithfull Iudge betwixt your selfe and me:
For well I know that thou most certaine art,
That for to love thee, I have felt much smart,
Loathing my life, since I could never gaine
A recompence to ratifie my paine.
Now if you please some succour for to lend,
I doe intreate you will your Answer send
| A Small Treatise betwixt Arnalte and Lucenda Entituled The Evill-intreated Lover, Or The Melancholy Knight | |