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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TO THE PICTVRE OF HIS MISTRIS. |
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 | Alba. The Months Minde of a Melancholy Lover, diuided into three parts |  |
TO THE PICTVRE OF HIS MISTRIS.
Like to the Porpose (Tempests prophesier)
I play before the storme of my sad Teares:
Or as the Swanne whose sweetest Note is higher,
When Death is neerest, which he gently beares:
So sing I, now that Alba mine is parted,
Who hath me left disliude and quite vnharted.
I play before the storme of my sad Teares:
Or as the Swanne whose sweetest Note is higher,
When Death is neerest, which he gently beares:
So sing I, now that Alba mine is parted,
Who hath me left disliude and quite vnharted.
Turne inke from Blacke to Gore in bloodiwise,
Paper from white change thou to deadly pale,
Whilst I my Readers eyes doe rumatise
With brinish drops to heare this wofull Tale.
This wofull tale, where sorrow is the ground,
Whose bottom's such, as (nere) the Depth is found.
Paper from white change thou to deadly pale,
Whilst I my Readers eyes doe rumatise
With brinish drops to heare this wofull Tale.
This wofull tale, where sorrow is the ground,
Whose bottom's such, as (nere) the Depth is found.
But vnto whom shall I (now) dedicate
This mestfull verse, this mournfull Elegie?
Euen to my cruell Mistresse Covnterfaite,
Of Beauties shape, the right Eternitie.
Then to her Pictvre I present this verse,
Of my slaine Hart (dead for pure loue) the Herse
This mestfull verse, this mournfull Elegie?
Euen to my cruell Mistresse Covnterfaite,
Of Beauties shape, the right Eternitie.
Then to her Pictvre I present this verse,
Of my slaine Hart (dead for pure loue) the Herse
Here may I touch, kisse, talke, doe what I please.
Without Controle, Frowne, Anger, or Disdain
To breake ones minde in griefe yet tis some
And boldly speake without replie againe.
Ah that I were Pigmalion in this place,
That Venus, me (as him she did) would grace
Without Controle, Frowne, Anger, or Disdain
To breake ones minde in griefe yet tis some
And boldly speake without replie againe.
Ah that I were Pigmalion in this place,
That Venus, me (as him she did) would grace
| Alba. The Months Minde of a Melancholy Lover, diuided into three parts | |