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Alcilia

Philoparthens louing Folly. Wherevnto Js Added Pigmalions Image. With The Loue of Amos and Lavra. And also Epigrammes by Sir I. H. and others. Neuer before imprinted

Chalkhill, John

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AMORIS PRÆLVDIVM:

Sic incipit stultorum Tragicomedia.

These Sonnets following, were written by the Author, (who giueth himselfe this fained name of Philoparthen, as his accidentall attribute) at diuers times, and vpon diuers occasions, and therefore in the forme and matter they differ, and sometimes are quite contrary one to another, considering the nature and qualitie of Love, which is a Passion full of varietie, and contrarietie in it selfe.

[Vnhappy Eyes that first my Heart betraid]

Loues Accusation at the Iudgement-seate of Reason, wherein the Authors whole successe in his loue is couertly described.

Loue decyphered.

Loues last Will and Testament.

The Sonnets following were written by the Author, after he beganne to decline from his passionate affection, and in them he seemeth to please himselfe, with describing the vanitie of Love, the frailtie of Beautie, and the sower fruits of Repentance.

[Now haue I spun the web of my owne woes]

EPIGRAMMES.

Don Pedro's Debt.

Sextus Wit.

Of casting out Spirits by Prayer, without Fasting.

Of wicked Prayers.

The Author, of his Fortune.

Of Misse-pointing.

To his Wife.

Of a Precise Taylor.

Of a Cittizen and his Sonne

Mistaking a word.

Of his Cooke, named Cornish.

Of a Prater, out of Martiall.

Of trusting to his Friend.

Of Faustus, a stealer of Verses.

An Epitaph by a man of his Father.

An Epitaph of Aretine.

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Sic incipit stultorum Tragicomedia.

It was my chance (vnhappy chance to mee)
As all alone I wandred on my way:
Voyd of distrust, from doubt of dangers free,
To passe a groue, where LOVE in Ambush lay.
VVho ayming at mee with his feather'd Dart,
Conuey'd it by mine Eye vnto my Hart.

VVhere (retchlesse Boy) he let the Arrow sticke,
VVhere I, as one amazed, senselesse stood:
The hurt was great, yet seemed but a pricke,
The wound was deepe, and yet appear'd no bloud,
“But inwardly it bleedes, Proofe teacheth this,
“VVhen wounds doe so the danger greater is.

Pausing a while, and grieued with my wound,
I look'd about, expecting some reliefe:
Small hope of helpe, no ease of paine I found,
Like all at once to perish in my griefe:
VVhen hastily I plucked forth the Dart.
But left the head fast fixed in my Hart.

Fast fixed in my Hart I left the head;
From whence I doubt it will not be remoued:
Ah what vnluckie chance that way me lead?
O Loue, thy force thou might'st else-where haue proued,
And shew'd thy power, where thou art not obey'd;
“The Conquest's small, where no resist is made.

But nought (alas) auayles it to complaine,
I rest resolu'd with Patience to endure:
The Fire being once disperst through euery veyne,
It is too late to hope for present cure.
Now Philoparthen must new follyes proue,
And learne a little, what it is to loue.