The Arbor of Amitie wherin is comprised pleasant Pohems and pretie Poesies, set foorth by Thomas Howell |
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The Louer receyuing no recompence for entire loue compareth himselfe to the vnluckie souldiour.
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 | The Arbor of Amitie |  |
The Louer receyuing no recompence for entire loue compareth himselfe to the vnluckie souldiour.
The Souldiour still that warres,in manie a stormie showre:
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in most vnluckie howre:
So I in souldiours trade,
to fight, to watch and warde,
And eche way sought hir once to please,
which giues me small regarde:
For though I present were,
to doe what she would craue,
Yet nowe an other shall possesse,
the thing I thought to haue.
Though I the toyle did take,
this pleasant plot to plowe:
Yet others reape the finest fruites,
of my true tilladge nowe.
What, serued not my loue,
that brest so sweetely bare,
And shall I thus an wofull wretch,
be snapt in sugred snare?
Then may I grone in griefe,
and eke abhorre the place
Where first I learnde with earnest hart,
to loue that gracelesse grace.
Is this your tried troth,
that sprang from rooted hart?
How frayle is then the female flock,
that counterfeits their smart?
When all men doe reioyce,
yea rude and brutishe beast:
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my carkes are more encreast.
The blessed birdes doe sing,
and Ladie Ver retornes,
And pleasant sightes begin to growe,
among the thriftles thornes.
But yet doe I lament,
with teares where I remaine:
For that for troth and loyall loue,
thou louste me not againe.
Adue thou frosen hart,
and voice of hardned yre:
Yet tract of time shall trie me true,
as iustice doth desyre.
And since thou false hast bene,
that seest and wilt not see,
Perhaps thou mayst as yet repent,
that thou forsookest mee.
But linck where loue doth light,
thy course runne out in this:
Take heede, sone whot, sone cold they say,
his loue you yet may misse.
Not all that glistereth bright,
may beare the name of golde:
Nor he that saies he loues thee well,
the truth perhaps hath tolde.
Some loue for riches store,
as commonly we see:
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more then I loued thee:
But out alas farewell,
I did it to my coste:
I liude in hope but all in vaine,
my labours all are loste.
Thou art my wofull wounde,
and cause of all my smart:
Which doste me hate and cleane refuse,
the loue of faithfull hart.
Nowe doe I well perceyue,
and proue it to my paine:
How great a griefe it is to loue,
and not be loude againe.
| The Arbor of Amitie | |