Licia, or Poemes of Loue In Honour of the admirable and singular vertues of his Lady, to the imitation of the best Latin Poets, and others. Whereunto is added the Rising to the Crowne of Richard the third [by Giles Fletcher] |
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A LOVERS MAZE. |
 | Licia, or Poemes of Loue |  |
60
A LOVERS MAZE.
Trewe are my thoughts; my thoughts that are untrue,
Blinde are my eies, my eyes that are not blinde:
New is my love, my love that is not newe,
Kind is that faire, that faire that is not kinde.
Thus eyes, and thoughts, that fairest faire, my love,
Blind, and untrue, unkind, unconstant prove.
Blinde are my eies, my eyes that are not blinde:
New is my love, my love that is not newe,
Kind is that faire, that faire that is not kinde.
Thus eyes, and thoughts, that fairest faire, my love,
Blind, and untrue, unkind, unconstant prove.
True are my thoughts: because they never flitte.
Vntrew my thoughtes: because they me betraide.
Blinde are my eyes: because in cloudes I sitte,
Not blinde my eyes: because I lookes obeyed.
Thus eyes, and thoughtes, my dearest faire may vewe:
In sight, in love, nor blinde, nor yet untrew.
Vntrew my thoughtes: because they me betraide.
Blinde are my eyes: because in cloudes I sitte,
Not blinde my eyes: because I lookes obeyed.
Thus eyes, and thoughtes, my dearest faire may vewe:
In sight, in love, nor blinde, nor yet untrew.
Newe is my love: because it never dies,
Olde is my love: because it ever lives.
Kinde is that faire: because it hate denyes,
Vnkinde that faire: because no hope it gives.
Thus new my love, and still that faire unkinde:
Renewes my love, and I no favour finde.
Olde is my love: because it ever lives.
Kinde is that faire: because it hate denyes,
Vnkinde that faire: because no hope it gives.
Thus new my love, and still that faire unkinde:
Renewes my love, and I no favour finde.
Sweete are my dreames, my dreames that are not sweet,
Long are the nightes, the nightes that are not long:
Meete are the panges, these panges that are unmeet:
Wrong'd is my heart, my heart that hath no wrong:
Thus dreames, and night, my heart, my pangs, and all;
In taste, in length, conspire to worke my sall.
Long are the nightes, the nightes that are not long:
Meete are the panges, these panges that are unmeet:
Wrong'd is my heart, my heart that hath no wrong:
Thus dreames, and night, my heart, my pangs, and all;
In taste, in length, conspire to worke my sall.
61
Sweet are my dreames: because my love they showe.
Vnsweet my dreames: because but dreames they are.
Long are the nights: because no helpe I know,
Short are the nights because the end my care,
Thus dreames, and nightes, wherein my love takes sport
Are sweet, unsweet, are long, and yet too short.
Vnsweet my dreames: because but dreames they are.
Long are the nights: because no helpe I know,
Short are the nights because the end my care,
Thus dreames, and nightes, wherein my love takes sport
Are sweet, unsweet, are long, and yet too short.
Meet are my panges: because I was too bolde.
Vnmeet my panges, because I lov'd so well.
Wrong'd was my heart: because my griefe it tolde:
Not wrong'd: for why? my griefe it could not tell.
Thus you my love, unkindlie cause this smart.
That will not love, to ease my panges and heart.
Vnmeet my panges, because I lov'd so well.
Wrong'd was my heart: because my griefe it tolde:
Not wrong'd: for why? my griefe it could not tell.
Thus you my love, unkindlie cause this smart.
That will not love, to ease my panges and heart.
Proud is her looke: her looke that is not proude,
Done are my dayes, my dayes that are not done,
Lowd are my sighes, my sighes that are not lowd,
Begun my death, my death not yet begunne.
Thus looks, and dayes, and sighs, and death might move:
So kind, so faire, to give consent to love.
Done are my dayes, my dayes that are not done,
Lowd are my sighes, my sighes that are not lowd,
Begun my death, my death not yet begunne.
Thus looks, and dayes, and sighs, and death might move:
So kind, so faire, to give consent to love.
Proud is her looke: because she scornes to see.
Not proud her looke: for none dare say so much.
Done are my dayes: because they haplesse be.
Not done my dayes: because I wish them such.
Thus lookes, and dayes, increase this loving strife,
Not proude, nor done, nor dead, nor giving life.
Not proud her looke: for none dare say so much.
Done are my dayes: because they haplesse be.
Not done my dayes: because I wish them such.
Thus lookes, and dayes, increase this loving strife,
Not proude, nor done, nor dead, nor giving life.
62
Loud are my sighes: because they pearce the skie.
Not loud my sighes: because they are not heard.
My death begunne: because I heartlesse crie.
But not begunne: because I am debard.
Thus sighes, and death, my heart no comfort give:
Both lyfe denie, and both do make me live.
Not loud my sighes: because they are not heard.
My death begunne: because I heartlesse crie.
But not begunne: because I am debard.
Thus sighes, and death, my heart no comfort give:
Both lyfe denie, and both do make me live.
Bold are her smiles, her smiles that are not bold
Wise are her wordes, those words that are not wise,
Cold are her lippes, those lippes that are not colde,
Ise are those hands, those handes that are not ise.
Thus smiles, and wordes, her lippes, her hands, and she,
Bold wise, cold ise, loves cruell torments be.
Wise are her wordes, those words that are not wise,
Cold are her lippes, those lippes that are not colde,
Ise are those hands, those handes that are not ise.
Thus smiles, and wordes, her lippes, her hands, and she,
Bold wise, cold ise, loves cruell torments be.
Bold are her smiles: because they anger slay.
Not bold her smiles: because they blush so oft.
Wise are her wordes; because they woonders say.
Not wise her wordes: because they are not soft.
Thus smiles, and wordes, so cruell and so bold:
So blushing wise, my thoughtes in prison hold.
Not bold her smiles: because they blush so oft.
Wise are her wordes; because they woonders say.
Not wise her wordes: because they are not soft.
Thus smiles, and wordes, so cruell and so bold:
So blushing wise, my thoughtes in prison hold.
Colde are her lippes, because they breath no heate.
Not colde her lippes: because my heart they burne.
Ise are her handes: because the snow's so great.
Not Ise her handes, that all to ashes turne.
Thus lippes and handes, cold Ise my sorrowe bred,
Hands warme-white-snow, and lippes, cold cherrie red.
Not colde her lippes: because my heart they burne.
Ise are her handes: because the snow's so great.
Not Ise her handes, that all to ashes turne.
Thus lippes and handes, cold Ise my sorrowe bred,
Hands warme-white-snow, and lippes, cold cherrie red.
63
Small was her wast, the wast that was not small:
Gold was her haire, the haire that was not gold,
Tall was her shape, the shape that was not tall,
Folding the armes, the armes that did not folde:
Thus haire, and shape, those folding armes and wast:
Did make me love, and loving made me waste.
Gold was her haire, the haire that was not gold,
Tall was her shape, the shape that was not tall,
Folding the armes, the armes that did not folde:
Thus haire, and shape, those folding armes and wast:
Did make me love, and loving made me waste.
Small was her wast, because I could it spanne,
Not small her wast: because she wasted all.
Gold was her haire: because a crowne it wanne,
Not gold her haire: because it was more pale.
Thus smallest waste, the greatest wast doth make:
And finest haire, most fast a lover take.
Not small her wast: because she wasted all.
Gold was her haire: because a crowne it wanne,
Not gold her haire: because it was more pale.
Thus smallest waste, the greatest wast doth make:
And finest haire, most fast a lover take.
Tall was her shape: because she toucht the skie,
Not tall her shape: because she comelie was,
Folding her armes: because she hearts could tie.
Not folded armes: because all bands they passe.
Thus shape, and armes, with love my heart did plie,
That hers I am, and must be till I die.
Not tall her shape: because she comelie was,
Folding her armes: because she hearts could tie.
Not folded armes: because all bands they passe.
Thus shape, and armes, with love my heart did plie,
That hers I am, and must be till I die.
Sad was her joy, her joy that was not sadde,
Short was her staie, her staie that was not short:
Glad was her speach, her speach that was not glad:
Sporting those toyes, those toyes that were not sport:
Thus was my heart, with joy, speach, toyes, and stay,
Possest with love, and so stollen quite avvay.
Short was her staie, her staie that was not short:
Glad was her speach, her speach that was not glad:
Sporting those toyes, those toyes that were not sport:
Thus was my heart, with joy, speach, toyes, and stay,
Possest with love, and so stollen quite avvay.
64
Sadde was her joy: because she did suspect.
Not sad her joy: because her joy she had.
Short was her staie: because to smal effect.
Long was her stay: because I was so sadde.
Thus joy, and staie, both crost a lovers sporte,
The one was sadde, the other too too short.
Not sad her joy: because her joy she had.
Short was her staie: because to smal effect.
Long was her stay: because I was so sadde.
Thus joy, and staie, both crost a lovers sporte,
The one was sadde, the other too too short.
Glad was her speach: because shee spake her' mind.
Not glad her speach: because affraid to speake.
Sporting her toyes: because my love was kinde.
Not toyes in sport: because my heart they breake.
Thus speach, and toyes, my love began in jest:
(Sweet) yeeld to love, and make thy servant blest.
Not glad her speach: because affraid to speake.
Sporting her toyes: because my love was kinde.
Not toyes in sport: because my heart they breake.
Thus speach, and toyes, my love began in jest:
(Sweet) yeeld to love, and make thy servant blest.
Tread you the Maze (sweet love) that I have run:
Marke but the steppes, which I imprinted have:
End but your love, whereas my thoughtes begun,
So shall I joye, and you a servant have.
If not (sweet loue) then this my sute denie:
So shall you live, and so your servant die.
Marke but the steppes, which I imprinted have:
End but your love, whereas my thoughtes begun,
So shall I joye, and you a servant have.
If not (sweet loue) then this my sute denie:
So shall you live, and so your servant die.
| Licia, or Poemes of Loue | |