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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 | Alba. The Months Minde of a Melancholy Lover, diuided into three parts |  |
An Answer.
Evterpe, nor the Muses (her sweet Mates)
Pernassus drops infuse into my Braine:
My table is not furnisht with rare Cates,
(Daintie Conceits) which come from Poets vaine:
No sacred Furie me inspires t'endite,
But what first comes in braine (straight) that I write.
Pernassus drops infuse into my Braine:
My table is not furnisht with rare Cates,
(Daintie Conceits) which come from Poets vaine:
No sacred Furie me inspires t'endite,
But what first comes in braine (straight) that I write.
Thy Lawrel greene that thou hast lou'd so long,
Doth florish still, nor fatall Cypresse tis;
To feare too much, thy selfe then much dost wrong,
And ouer-much to grieue, thou dost amisse.
No Sunne but falls as well as it doth rise,
And who (in Loue) liues without Contraries?
Doth florish still, nor fatall Cypresse tis;
To feare too much, thy selfe then much dost wrong,
And ouer-much to grieue, thou dost amisse.
No Sunne but falls as well as it doth rise,
And who (in Loue) liues without Contraries?
Though Alba's gone, yes she'le againe returne,
Then write, that she may know thou dost her minde:
What Ladies promise, Honor will performe,
Nor thinke that Beautie alwaies is vnkinde:
Alba is milde; Mercie will Mercie show,
No Riuer ebs, but it againe must flow.
Then write, that she may know thou dost her minde:
What Ladies promise, Honor will performe,
Nor thinke that Beautie alwaies is vnkinde:
Alba is milde; Mercie will Mercie show,
No Riuer ebs, but it againe must flow.
I am at best and in my youthfull prime,
My louely Cynthias Fauour I enioy:
Yet think not but my Day is darkt sometime,
As I do taste of Blisse, so feele I noy:
Thus chirps one Robin Redbrest to another.
Ah do not thy rare Gifts through sorrow smother.
My louely Cynthias Fauour I enioy:
Yet think not but my Day is darkt sometime,
As I do taste of Blisse, so feele I noy:
Thus chirps one Robin Redbrest to another.
Ah do not thy rare Gifts through sorrow smother.
R. A.
| Alba. The Months Minde of a Melancholy Lover, diuided into three parts | |