Alba. The Months Minde of a Melancholy Lover, diuided into three parts By R. T. Gentleman [i.e. Robert Tofte]. Herevnto is Added a most excellent pathetical and passionate Letter, sent by Duke D'Epernoun, vnto the late French King, Henry the 3. of that name, when he was commanded from the Court, and from his Royall Companie. Translated into English by the foresaid Author |
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The Author to Master R.A.
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 | Alba. The Months Minde of a Melancholy Lover, diuided into three parts |  |
The Author to Master R.A.
Deare
friend, in whom Euterpe doth instill
Each rare Conceit, within thy learned brest,
Guiding so happily thy pleasing quill,
Whilst of thy Mistris Beautie th' art in Quest:
Making our Tamesis for fame as rare,
As Tiber, when proud Rome Worlds scepter bare.
Each rare Conceit, within thy learned brest,
Guiding so happily thy pleasing quill,
Whilst of thy Mistris Beautie th' art in Quest:
Making our Tamesis for fame as rare,
As Tiber, when proud Rome Worlds scepter bare.
That Lavvrel greene which in my youthfull yeares
I lou'd so much, so deare, as like could none,
A fatall barren Cypresse now appeares,
Which scarce in harsh and hatefull Verse I mone:
Too true presage of Falling of my Sunne,
And hastie Poste of my sad Griefes to come.
I lou'd so much, so deare, as like could none,
A fatall barren Cypresse now appeares,
Which scarce in harsh and hatefull Verse I mone:
Too true presage of Falling of my Sunne,
And hastie Poste of my sad Griefes to come.
Then to what end, since that it is in vaine,
My sicklie penne, my bloodles hand to write,
Calast thou on me? that thus liue still in paine,
Since blinded I, haue lost mine Albas sight.
Mercie no Mercie me, no more will show,
Now doth it ebbe, where it was wont to flow.
My sicklie penne, my bloodles hand to write,
Calast thou on me? that thus liue still in paine,
Since blinded I, haue lost mine Albas sight.
Mercie no Mercie me, no more will show,
Now doth it ebbe, where it was wont to flow.
But thou whose Blood is hot, and in thy Prime,
And daily ioyest thy Cynthias Companie:
Rowse thee, and of right Eagle shew the signe,
And with thy Verse (thy flight) cut through the skie,
Whilst I mine Albas absence still bewaile,
Whose sight being lost, my sences needs must faile.
And daily ioyest thy Cynthias Companie:
Rowse thee, and of right Eagle shew the signe,
And with thy Verse (thy flight) cut through the skie,
Whilst I mine Albas absence still bewaile,
Whose sight being lost, my sences needs must faile.
R. T.
| Alba. The Months Minde of a Melancholy Lover, diuided into three parts | |