University of Virginia Library

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[As glorious Pearle, the Margarete]

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TO THE NO LESSE EXCELLENT THEN HONORABLIE DESCENDED Gentlewoman, Mistresse Anne Herne.

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TO THE THRISE GENEROVS AND NOBLE Gentleman Sir Calisthines Brooke Knight, one of her Maiesties chiefe Commanders in Ireland.

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To the right noble and magnanimous Gentleman Sir John Brooke Knight, one of her Maiesties chiefe Captaines in the Lovv Covntries.

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Richard Day to the Author.

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An Answer to his kinde friend Richard Day. Gent.

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A friend, though a stranger to the Author.

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An Answer.

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To my deare friend R. T. Gent.

The Answer of the Author.

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The Author to Master R.A.

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An Answer.

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Alba.

The Months Minde of A Melancholy hover

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TO THE PICTVRE OF HIS MISTRIS.

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1. THE FIRST PART OF THE MONETHS MIND OF A MELANCHOLY LOVER.

Alla Crudelissima.

Loe here the Months Mind of my deare bought Loue
Which (once a Month) I vowd to memorise,
When first I sought the Crvel Faire to moue,
Who alwaies did my sighs and teares despise.
This must my Sabboth be, and Holiday,
On which I (to my Goddesse) vse to pray.

This Feast I solemnise for her sweete sake,
(In absence hers) as if she present were,
For my proud Choice, who pitie none doth take
On me, that liue twixt Hope, despaire and feare.
(Deare Alba) then accept this Sacrifice,
These dutious Teares, the Tribute of mine eyes.

Thinke how perplext fore Pictvre thine I stand;
Thinke of the depth of my sad Passion;
How I haue alwaies bin at thy command;
How none but thee my thoughts still muse vpon.
Thinke how I euer tendred thy Good name,
Conseruing with my dearest Blood the same.

[OMITTED]ke how I still of thee had due respect,
[OMITTED]h thou (at all times) nidst me vse too hard;
[OMITTED] withouten cause thou didst reiect,
[OMITTED]ood meaning too too meane reward)
[OMITTED] these wrongs which I endured haue,
[OMITTED] remember me: Nought els I craue.

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Since spightfull Fortune (sore against my will)
Hath drawne me farre from place where thou dost liue:
And that of force I must obey her still,
(Although to liue so doth me deadly grieue)
Yet though my Bodie is farre off, My Hart
Is still with thee, from whence it nere shall part.

Only of thee (sweete Ladie) this I craue,
That till our thred of life shall be vnspun,
Thou wilt vouchsafe me in thy minde to haue,
And not forget the Loue twixt vs begun.
But in thy Hart the same for to repose,
As I (the like) in inward soule doe close.

This only can (still) me in life conserue,
Thy gracious Fauour and thy Pitie sweete:
This is the pretious Balme, the pure Preserue,
Which I doe hope to finde, and still will seeke:
This makes me liue, although with great vnrest,
Since of thy selfe I haue bin dispossest.

Thou art my Hope, my Hauen, my Comfort chiefe,
On thee alone, on none els I relie:
Only to thee I come to begge reliefe;
In thee it is if I shall liue or die.
(Dearest) remember tis a Gift more rare,
Constant to be, then to be counted Faire.

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Two sparkling stars, fine golde, pure Ebonie,
From whence Loue takes his Brands, his Shafts & Bow,
Two daintie Apples, which though hid from eye,
Through vaile of Lawne, through lawne more faire do show:
A cherrie lip with Iuorie teeth most white,
Where Cupid begs within that Grate so bright.

Vermilion Flowers that grow in Heauen aboue;
Snow, which no wet can marre, nor Sunne can melt,
Right Margarite Pearle which alwaies Orient proue,
A Voyce, that Hart of marble makes to swelt,
A Smile that calmes the raging of the Sea,
And Skie more cleere makes then was wont to bee.

Graue, staied wisedome in yong and tender yeares,
A stately Gate, and Port maiesticall,
A Carriage (where in vertue (borne) appeares,
Lookes that disdaine, and yet delight withall,
Numbers of Fauours, Beauties infinite,
With Modestie, chaste, pure, and milde Delight.

An humble Soule within a Bodie rich,
A lowly Thought within a conquering Hart:
These are the workes which I commend so mich,
Which Heauens & Love haue framde by curious Art:
All these I once enioyde: but they being gone,
My Note is changde, my Mirth is turnde to Mone.

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Ah might I once perswaded be at last,
These skalding sighs of mine should haue an end,
That I for Sower, some Sweet (at length) might taste,
And that the Crvel Faire would not contend
Euer gainst me; I then would (gently) take,
And suffer all these wrongs for her sweete sake.

Too well I know (and I confesse the same)
That too too loftie is my proud Desire:
My soaring Thoughts, deseruing mickle blame,
And I, ore bold, presume too high t'aspire:
Yet still (me thinkes) mine Ayme, being not base,
I should deserue some little tynie Grace.

Say then (sweete Love) for thou with Alba mine,
Dost soiorne, wheresoeuer she doth bide)
Say, am I like, that, to obtaine in time,
From which I now am so farre off, and wide?
Ah say the truth, doth she once thinke on me?
Doth she but wish that I with her might be?

Ah had not Reason my Desires refrainde,
I had, my Thoughts deare Soueraigne, seene ere this,
Whose Grace I sought (but bootles) to haue gainde,
The only ioy I in this world would wish.
Rather would I see those chaste beautious Eyes,
Then chuse to be in matchlesse Paradise.

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As Christall Glasse in which the Sunne doth shine,
I like mine Albas Angels heauenly feature:
But when she deadly wounds this Corse of mine,
I lothe her more then any murthring Creature:
More then a Theefe that robs and stealeth pelfe,
I hate her, when she steales me from my selfe.

My hart is grieu'd cause it doth disagree:
For whilst my Minde to loue her doth deuise,
And thinks her worthie honored for to bee,
A Sdainfull thought through Hatred doth arise,
Which skornes ye one so Rich, a Theefe shuld proue,
That one so Faire, a Murtheresse is in loue.

I know not what to seeke, nor what I should,
Yet haue I sought till I haue lost my sense:
Although truth to confesse, faine loue I would,
And yet not die for this too Cruell wench.
Betwixt these two fain would I find a Meane,
Alas, Women haue none, they alwaies keepe Th' extreme.

Then how for me ist possible to loue,
If my best Alba once from me be tooke?
How shall I liue when thousand Deaths I proue?
When not this one (the least) I scarce can brooke.
Ah woe is me, a double mixt Desire,
To haste my Death the sooner doth conspire.

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Such is the rare perfection of sweete Beautie
Of my faire Alba, my sole choise Delight:
That if that any Painter doth his dutie,
To shadow forth her Luster passing bright,
He loseth both his labour and his time,
As one ore bold, so high a step to clime.

For whilst he giues his minde attentiuely,
And studieth to match Nature with his Art,
Marking her Feature with a watchfull eye,
To portray forth most liuely euery part:
Such brightnes comes from her, such glistring rayes,
As he's struck blinde, and darkned goes his wayes.

This is the cause, that who in hand doth take,
In curious wise her pearlesse Counterfate,
Hoping himselfe immortall so to make,
Doth fall into like dangerous estate:
Thinking to shadow her, he shadowed is,
And so his eyes, and purpose he doth misse.

That, she were drawne in midst of Hart it were
Far better, (and (my selfe) haue plaste her so)
For though in darke she hidden doth appeere,
Yet vnto me she faire and bright doth show,
My Hart's the Boord, where limnde you may her see;
My Teares the Oyle, my Blood the Colours bee.

Fano.

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Bright were the Heauens, and husht was euery winde,
Cleere was the day, when as mine Alba faire,
Brought forth with ioy (Lucina being kinde)
A daintie Babe, for feature passing rare,
Adorning all the world with this glad welth,
A gift t'enrich the World, Vs, and her self.

What time she was in trauell of this Childe,
No thunder, lightning, nor no storme was heard:
But all was quiet, peacefull, calme, and milde,
As if the skies t'offend her were afeard,
Whilst th' earth attended on her, and the Sea,
As though they staid at her command to be.

Then did the Windes (not vsing so before)
A gentle gale blow calmely euery where,
And fild the blisfull Aire with sweetes great store:
Each bird and fowle shewing a merry cheere,
Whilst that blest Day a double Beautie found,
One from the Sunne, the other here on ground.

This made the haughtie proud Oceanus,
To open all his wealth in outward show:
And finding my faire Mistresse honored thus,
He made his swelling waues in richnes flow,
Whilst that a Margarite brought forth a Perle,
A precious stone, a daintie louely Gerle.

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As I haue liu'd, I liue, and liue so will,
With selfe same baite that Love for me did lay,
When he his net (to traine me in by skill)
Did open set, to bring me to his bay:
Only that I might sigh for thee alone,
And sue for Grace, although Grace found I none.

Then Alba let it not displeasen thee,
Nor make thou shew of anger for the same:
Though my sweete Bonds so strait and inward bee,
Since I (not thou) doe beare thereof the paine:
And that my loue to thee is growne so neere,
As then my life I value it more deere.

Thine was I first, and thine at last I am,
And thine I will be to the world his end:
For thee into this world I willing came,
And leaue this world I will, fore thee offend.
Meane time thy matchles vertues I will blase,
And spend my life, sighing for thee alwaies.

Ah Love twas thou that tookst my libertie,
And of Freeman inforst me be a slaue,
Whilst Hers to be, and thine, most willinglie
I am content this seruile yoke to haue.
Loves prisoner then, begging at Beauties gate,
Some Almes bestow sweete Ladie for Gods sake.

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My mounting Minde, my neuer staide Conceit,
Hath built a stately Castle in the Aire:
Which loue his lightning Fire, nor his fierce thret,
Nor Fate, nor Fortune, nor ought els doth feare.
Founded it is vpon two running Wheeles,
The Gates of dust and winde (still turning reeles.)

Thousands of Motes are digd about the same,
Which are capritious Humors fond and Toyes:
The Skouts and Guards therof, Hopes dead and vaine;
The Food therein preparde, false fleeting Ioyes;
The fencing Walles are framde of fieree Desire,
Which dreads nor Sea, nor earth, nor force, nor fire.

The Armours, framed are in running Head,
Of foolish Boldnes, and of pensiue Feare,
Which None knowes how they should be managed,
Nor how the same gainst others right to beare:
The Shot, Munition, and Artillerie,
Are diuers Thoughts which in the Fancie lie.

The Castellane doth fight against himselfe,
Hauing nought els his souldiers for to pay,
But with Ambition which is all his wealth:
Iudge then my state, and marke my firmest stay.
O Love how long learne shall I in thy Schoole?
The more I learne, I (still) doe proue more Foole.

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Swift roling Spheares, cleere burning Lamps diuine,
That with your beames disgrace the glorious Sunne:
Faire Ladders by which I to Heauen clime,
And by your Influence this rare course doe runne.
Ah, if not quickly hither you returne,
Too late (in vaine) my losse you then shall mourne.

My Spirits for you did seeke to ope each way,
That you might passage make into my Hart,
And ioyfull were they when you there did stay,
But sorrowfull when you from thence did part.
And now my Soule is summond by Despaire,
For want of you his only Hope and Care.

All comfortles I liue here all alone,
Banisht from Mirth, and Bondslaue vnto Noy:
Feeding my selfe (now you from hence are gone)
With sweete Remembrance of forepassed Ioy,
And with kinde Hope: these twaine together striue
To keepe me, gainst despairing Thoughts aliue.

The first, doth Albas selfe (for my reliefe)
Present (of which I am now dispossest)
The other doth abate each swelling griefe,
Which els my Hart would ouermuch molest.
Ah pleasing Hope, ah gratious Memorie,
You make me liue, which els of force should die.

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Without my Sunne, I liue in darksome shade,
Whilst I with sighing spend my hatefull daies,
And in Loves Sea without my Pilot wade,
Whilst storme my leaking Barke to sinke assaies:
I languish malcontent, deepe drownde in Care,
Witnes mine Eyes, that running fountaines are.

Thou Northwest Village farre from mine abode,
Which dost enioy my Mistris presence faire:
Ah happie art thou where she makes her rode,
And where she bides whose selfe hath no compare.
Happie art thou, but most vnhappie I,
Thou dost possesse, I want her companie.

Faine would I (for long since I vow did take)
As painfull Pilgrim in deuoutfull wise,
A voyage in that Holy land to make,
At my sweete Saint her Shrine to sacrifise,
Where (for Oblation) I my Hart would offer,
Not doubting but she would accept the proffer.

But to no end I wish, it is in vaine,
A lesser Fauour should contenten mee:
It should suffiise me if I might but gaine
A sight of her, Her once more for to see.
A lack, this is not ouermuch I craue,
Only her sight, not her, tis I would haue.

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Sad Teares, that from my mestfull Hart doe runne,
Thrust forth through watrie Eyes by Sorrow kinde:
If you into Loves paths by chance shall come,
Where he doth walke, and pitie thinke to finde:
In vaine then doe you stirre abrode, in vaine
You lose your trauaile, labour, and your paine.

For whilst the way vnto an Humour new
You open wide, fierce Alba shutteth close
Her breast from mercie, making me to rew,
And for your Friendship, counts you as her foes:
Wherein, she doth a damd Example show,
Forcing her Hart gainst Conscience hers to goe.

Then wofull teares what will you doe as now?
Love's dead and gone, all pitie is exilde:
Skornd is my Constancie and loyall Vow,
And through Disdaine I daily am reuilde.
My Hopes are blasted, and as withered seeme,
Whilst still Disgraces shew before me greene.

Come then, turne backe, and with me secretlie
Bewaile my torment, least my Hart appeere
A senseles stone, through proud Impietie:
And my blinde eyes a fountaine running cleere.
And since not any will our Griefes bemone,
Lets swallow downe our Sorrowes all alone.

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Love hath me bound once more to make the way,
From whence my Hart hath neuer yet declinde:
And doubts least He, from rightest paths should stray,
Because so weake and crased I him finde:
And marueile none, he wants his wonted sight,
How can he iournie then but Sauns delight.

The sillie Wretch lookes vp, yet nought can see;
As who should say, my Helpe comes from Aboue:
Yet grieues his seruice is not tooke boun gree,
Since tis refinde from Thought of purest Loue.
My Minde doth burne in frost, but not in fire,
Through vncouth passion barde from his Desire.

My Hart is like a Widower that's disdainde;
My soule a Figure of a Malcontent,
To see that Love thus vildly should be stainde,
Not to requite, where nought but Loue is ment.
But I doe see no pitie is in spite,
Where Malice raignes, Desert is banisht quite.

My Soule vpon my Hart for this doth plaine,
My Hart (againe) my Fancie doth accuse:
My Fancie saith, mine Eyes were too too blame,
Their ouer-boldnes wrought this great Abuse.
Alas poore Eyes, too dearly doe you pay,
When for one Fault your Light is tooke away.

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Thy whitenes (Alba) I may well compare
To Delia, when no clowde doth her obscure:
Thy haires to Phœbus lightning in the Aire,
When he doth shine with greatest Luster pure.
Thy diamond eyes, like to a frostie Night,
Where sparkling stars doe shooting take their flight.

Thy cheekes Aurora like, when with her Dew,
The Rose and Lillie she doth sprinkle sweete:
Resembling drops that seeded Pearle doe shew,
As if that double Beautie did them greete.
Thy Hand, no hand, it is the daintie Gloue,
Which Psyches ware, when she was wed to Love.

VVhat art thou, but All faire in outward show,
But inwardly th' art Cruel and vnkinde:
In thy faire Face all Fauours sweet doe grow,
But Thornes and Briars in thy Hart I finde:
With shew of sweet thou lur'st and dost entise,
But bitterly thou makst them pay the price.

Thou cruell lead'st my life to dismall Death,
My hope from all her Ioyes thou dost confine:
Thou art the corde that stopst my vitall breath,
And Armes with Armes against me dost conioyne.
Thou only art the She that's fenst with hate,
And dost thy selfe of pitie naked make.

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Tirde with a Burthen of Extremities,
Which breakes, not bowes, my wofull Hart in twaine,
And checkt with chiefest Mate of Miseries,
I linger out my lothed life in paine.
Then death, not life, I may this liuing call,
Where ceasles Noy, not ioy, doth me befall.

Black gloomy Thoughts on me doe tyrannise,
And to my Soule appoynted faithfull Guides,
Doe her deceiue, with her they subtellise,
Nor in this ill to comfort me None bides.
All my best Hopes are at an Ebbing low,
Whilst stealing yeares, with griefes encreasing grow.

What shall I doe? shall I to reason turne?
Oh no, for her I too much haue offended.
What, shal I goe to Love, and to him mourne
For aide, and promise all shall be amended?
Alas, it were in vaine, and labour lost,
Where he doth promise, he deceiueth most.

See then ye fond Desires, what you haue done,
By headstrong Will, sage Reason to depraue:
But what shall I, as now resolue vpon?
Whom shall I trust? of whom helpe shall I craue?
Euen her who first betraide me will I trust,
She can but be (as she hath been) vniust.

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Come gentle sleepe (sweet sleepe) my welcome Frend,
Come comfort me with shadow of my Loue,
And her, in vision quickly to me send,
For whom these griefes and bitter pangs I proue.
Black Night be thou far darker then thou art,
Thy chiefest Beautie is to be most darke.

By thee my peace and pleasure doth arise,
Whilst I through thy deceit (yet liking me)
Doe seeme to ioy with her in louely wise,
Although from hence (God knowes) far off she be.
Such is the pleasure that herein I take,
As more I could not ioy, were I awake.

Thou shewst to me the trammels of her Haire,
Clept Scala Coeli, locks of pure Delight:
Her snowy Neck, the cause of my sweete Care;
Her eyes like Saphires sparkling in the night:
With ot'er sights, vnseemly to be knowne:
Al these sweet sleep, through thee to me are showne.

Only in this (my thinks) th' art too vnkinde,
That when thou partst from me, all ioy doth part:
Nor any such thing left with me I finde,
Which then afresh renewes mine inward smart.
Then since her selfe (I waking) cannot haue,
Sleeping let me her shadow of thee craue.

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Like as the painefull Marchant venterer,
That is to leaue his sweetest natiue soyle,
Being bound vnto some strangy Countrie far,
Whome hope of gaine doth restles make to toyle;
Taking his leaue of his deare Familie,
Through feare & hope, makes them to liue and die.

But afterward when he hath crost the Seas,
Fraughting his ship with richest marchandise,
He then begins to frolicke, Hearts at ease,
And hoyseth vp his sailes in cheerefull wise,
Searching by skill the shortest cut to take,
Of this his wearie iourney, end to make.

When being almost tired, at the last
He is in kenning of his wished Home,
And when hauing of his Natiue Aire a taste,
Twixt ioy and griefe, his very soule doth grone,
For griefe, his Countrie he so long did in
For ioy, that Home he now returned is,

So fare I: for when I doe call to minde
The time in which my Libertie was lost,
I shed salt teares, to thinke how I did binde
My selfe, being free, as slaue vnto my cost:
But when I hope one day I shall be free,
(Through my sweet Saint) my hart doth leap for glee.

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As many fierie darts as Ioue on high,
Dingde downe on Giants in his angrie mood,
So many whirle about my Bodie nigh.
As longing causeles for my guiltles blood,
The frighted Aire raine Ashes downe apace,
And cheerefull sunne flies hence to hide his face.

Thus stand I in a Maze of Miserie,
My Heart (seeing nought but signes of present death)
Seekes how with clipped wings away to flie,
And faine would scape to saue his vitall breath.
Ah pouer wretch, but how ist possible?
I know not how, nor he himselfe can tell.

The world's his foe, and Love doth him betraie,
Despaire of helpe, his senses doth confound,
His cursed Guide (for nonce) leades him astraie,
Fortune accuseth him on no sure ground.
And which doth gaule him most, & most doth grieue,
His Mistris rash, gainst him doth iudgement giue.

He Mercie cries, and calleth for his Booke,
But proude Disdaine doth stop the Iudges eares,
So that on him she'le not so much as looke,
And thus from Barre, they quickelie doe him beare,
From Albas presence is he quite debarde,
Exilde from Her, this is his sentence harde.

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Great state and pomp this princely pallace showes,
And richly euery chamber hanged is:
Mine entertainment daily sweeter growes,
What Hart or thought can gesse, I doe not misse.
Chiefly the Walkes, and Gardens wondrous been,
As they a second Paradise doe seeme.

Yet though I finde this kindnes passing great,
VVith hunting, hawking, fowling, and such sport:
For all our feasting and our daintie meate,
Our mirth and Musick in most pleasing sort:
For all these pleasures, yet liue I in paine,
Since Her I want, for whom I wish in vaine.

VVhat others loue, I lothe, and quite dislike,
And though I am in worthie companie,
Yet still (my thinks) I am retired quite,
Into a place of matchles miserie,
Into an vncouth wood and wildernes,
VVhere liue such Beasts as pray on Sauagenes.

And if that long from her I be depriu'd,
My life shall be like flowers that want the Sun:
So shall I yeeld my Ghost as one disliu'd,
VVhilst my threds life shall quickly be vnspun.
Go skalding sighs then, flie vnto her straite,
Say that for life or death on her I waite.

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You stately Hils, you princelike Ruins olde,
Which proudly in your last remainders show,
And who as yet the name of faire Rome holde,
To whom did once the whole world homage owe,
The place where (now) so many Relikes lie,
Of Holy soules honord for Christ to die.

You Theaters, you Conquerors Arches faire,
Colosses huge, and massie Pillers great,
Triumphant Showes of more then Glory rare,
Where Victorie with pomp did take their seate:
Lo what a wonder strange in you is wrought,
You now are dust, consumde (as twere) to nought.

Though conquering War, doth make in time to come,
Many things florish, and with Fame to rise:
Yet in the end when all is past and done,
Time doth All this consume in spitefull wise,
All Monuments, all Monarchs that haue been,
Time in the end destroyes, and weares out cleane.

And since tis so, I will contented liue
In discontent: for if that Time can make
An end of All, and end to each thing giue,
(May be) some order he for me will take,
(May be) in th' end when I shall tried bee
To th' vtmost, I my guerdon iust may see.

Roma.

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Alba thinkst thou, thy Month shall still be May,
And that thy Colour fresh, still faire will be?
That Time and Fortune will not weare away
Beautie, which God and Nature lends to thee?
Yes, yes, that white and red, thy Cheekes now show
Shall quicklie change, and blacke and yellow grow.

The Giniper the longer it doth slower,
The older still it waxeth, bowing still,
And that sweete face of thine, which now hath power
Whole worlds with wondering at the same to fill,
Shall (though it now sauns blemish be) a Staine,
Hereafter with thicke wrinkeled Clifts remaine.

Great care to keepe this Beautie fraile must be,
Which we (God knowes) a small time doe enioy,
Doe what we can, we lose it suddenle;
Why, then, being courted shouldst thou seeme so coy;
Fortunes wings made of Times feathers neere stay
But care thou them canst measure flit away.

Then be not ouer hard, like changeles Fate,
But let my Cries force thee (at last) relent,
Doe not oppose thy selfe too obstinate
Gainst him, whose time to honor thee is spent:
Ah let me speake the trueth (though somewhat bold
Though now th' art young, thou one day must be old

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Riuers of gorie blood into the Sea,
In sted of Waters shall most swiftlie runne;
The hugie Ocean drie as land shall be,
And darke as pitch shall shew the glistering Sunne:
Love shall of Loue, and kindenes be depriude,
And vastie world (sauns people) shall abide.

The Night shall lightsome be as Day most plaine,
The Heauens with their coloured cloudes shall fall,
Fore Love in me, a new Idea frame,
Or my firme Heart, from Alba alter shall,
Ah fore I change, let horror stop my breth,
Vnworthie Her, vnworthie of this earth.

As heretofore, so still I will her loue,
Nere shall my constant Heart lie languishing,
In hope another Beautie for to proue,
Which flitting fancie to mine eyes might bring:
My faith Acanthus like shall flourish greene;
Which th' older tis, the fresher still is seene.

I am no glasse, but perfect Diamound,
My constant minde holdes still where first it tooke,
Though not my selfe, my soule's in English ground,
Italians lookes, but not there Loves I brooke.
The Globelike World is round, and hath no end,
Such is my Faith to her, my Fairest frend.

Fano.

---

Gold's changde to Lead, and Emmeralds into Glasse;
Lillies proue Weedes, and Roses Nettles bee:
No harmles Beasts now through the fields doe passe,
To feede on Hill or Valleys shade we see:
Wilde Tigers fierce, and rauenous Lions fell,
In open Plaine, and cooly Groues doe dwell.

In stead of milde and pleasing Accents sweete,
From hollow Places fearfull Voices sound:
Eccho amongst the craggie rocks doth weepe,
And (heauie) makes her noyse with sighs rebound.
Riuers against their wonted course do runne,
The Moone lookes black, eclipsed is the Sunne.

The Sallow shakes his boughes, and inward grieues,
The Cypresse shew'th as if he sickly were,
And (melancholy) bares his lothed leaues,
A signe presaging some great cause of feare.
Phœbus no more doth combe his tresses faire,
But careles lets them feltred hang in th' aire.

Ghosts through the Citie ghastfully appeere,
And hideous shapes the mindes of men afright:
No Day we haue, but darknes euery where,
And turnd the World is topsie turuy quite,
The cause of all this change is my faire Loue,
Since to the countrie (hence) she doth remoue.

---

On bended knees low groueling on the ground,
Before the Crvel Faire I prostrate lay:
But what I sought of Her could not be found,
My kinde request was dasht with ruffe Denay.
With me she sharply gan expostulate,
Nor would she once pitie my hard Estate.

Teares I did shed, but teares I shed in vaine;
Vowes I did make, my Vowes she did reiect;
Prayers I offred, Prayers she did disdaine;
Presents I sent, but them sh'would not accept.
If teares, vowes, prayers, nor presents can doe good,
What then remaines, but for to offer blood?

Then Cruell take this Blood, Oblations Fee,
Which at thy shrine from Hart I sacrifise:
I know twill doe thee good and liketh thee,
And I bestow it in most hartie wise.
Neuer so much I of my life did make,
But that I could dispend it for thy sake.

What needst thou then ad water to the Seas,
Beames to the Sunne, or light vnto the Day,
When I more readie am, if so thou please,
My selfe to kill, then thou my life to slay?
Ah let me know thy minde, thus vex not still,
A kinde of Pitie tis, quickly to kill.

---

In stately Bed twixt sheetes more white then snow,
Where late my Pearle mine Alba faire did lie,
I restlesse vp and downe tosse to and fro,
Whilst trickling teares distill from blubbred eye.
Ah gentle sleepe do thou deuise some Meane,
For comfort mine, whilst I of her shall dreame.

You downy Pillowes, you which but of late,
Her daintie selfe did kindly entertaine,
(Once) of two louing Bodies charge do take,
By your soft yeelding, call her back againe:
For she is gone, and Troynouant hath left,
And being gone, my hart with her hath reft.

For both of vs here's roume enough to see,
We both in rest with ease may here remaine,
And here two soules (vnited) one, shall bee,
Two bodies (ioynd together) One, not twaine.
But tis in vaine, for were she here I know,
Though you agreede, agree she would not so.

Yet call her back, and pray to her for me,
For I am hoarse with praying ouer long
Ah to no purpose tis to call, I see,
She cannot heare, she too too farre is gon.
Yet will I still her praises haroldise,
And mongst the beautious Saints her canonise.

---

Heare me, a Martyr for religious Loue,
Thou Faire Tormentor, (Motiue of my paine)
All Racks and Tortors gainst my patience proue,
And when th' hast done, begin afresh againe.
Wearie shalt thou be of tormenting me,
Before I grieued at these plagues will be.

Too deare I prise thy beautie to repent,
Or wish I had not such sower stormes endur'd:
Though I thy hard hart finde nere to relent,
Custome and time, to woes haue me inur'd.
What ill so great but I would willing take,
And beare the brunt assur'd of thy sweet sake.

The sweet remembrance of thy fight of yore,
Th' only companion is of my deare life,
Thy presence was, which absent I adore,
My paradise and place of ioy most rife.
So I alone am not, though None's with mee,
And was in Heauen, when I thy face did see.

But this thou thinkst not of, this is least part
Now of thy minde, nor hast thou hereof care:
This neuer comes God knowes into thy hart,
But as heat's ioynd with fire, and breath with aire:
So crueltie in Womens stomacks dwels,
Which with Disdaine (as Furie) alwaies swels.

---

Ye Valleys deep withouten bottome found;
Ye Hils that match with height the azure skie;
Ye Caues by Nature hollow vnder ground,
Where quiet rest and silence alwaies lie,
Thou gloomy Aire which euer to the sight
Bringst darknes still, but neuer cheerfull light.

Ye vncouth Paths, ye solitarie walks,
Ye breakneck Rocks, most ghastly for to see,
Ye dreadfull Dens where neuer any stalks,
And where scarce hissing Serpents dare to bee:
Ye fatall Vaults where murdred Corses lie,
Haunted with hatefull sprites continuallie.

Ye Wildernesses and ye Deserts wilde,
Ye strangie Shores nere yet inhabited,
Ye Places from all pleasures quite exilde,
Where sad Melancholy and Griefe is fled,
Heare me, who am a shadow and a Ghost,
Damnd with eternall sorrow to be crost.

Heare me, since I am come for to bewaile,
Mongst you, my Faith, my Constancie, and Loue,
I hope with my lowd Cries and drerie Tale,
Though not the Heauens, yet Hell at least to moue:
Since more the Griefes are which within me grow,
Then Heauen hath Pleasures, or Hel, Plagues below.

---

How can the ship be guided without Helme,
The storme arising in a troubled Sea?
Needs must the churlish Waues it ouerwhelme,
Needs must it drowne, and cast away must bee.
How should I liue, and not my life enioy?
Feeding on Griefe, what should I taste but Noy?

Ah Cupid thinke vpon thy Seruant true,
I craue for my Deserts but some reward!
I seeke mine Owne, not more then is my due,
Hate for Goodwill to reape is too too hard.
If I for Well with Ill am payd againe,
Had I done ill, what then had bin my paine?

Loue with Remembrance lieth in my breast,
All other Thoughts he cancels out of minde:
To thinke whats past I cannot quiet rest,
Yet I in those Conceits strange Ioy doe finde,
Whilst now for her I think All I forsooke,
And wholly to her Grace my selfe betooke.

My wonted Mirth is turned into Mone,
Because my state is changde and altred quite:
In company I am as One alone,
Whilst what doth Others please, doth me dispite.
Ah when shall I once from these Plagues be free?
Neuer, lesse Alba Mercie shew to mee.

---

My ioyles Hart a troubled Spring is like,
Which from the tops of matchles Alpes most hie,
Falls with a mightie noise downe headlong right,
By vncouth stony wayes most dreadfully,
Where all his Hopes he in the Deepe doth drowne,
A fatall signe of fortunes heauie frowne.

Darke pitchie clowdes of hugie Mountaines steepe,
The loftiest part do hide from Sunny heate:
Seeld any winde of Pitie there doth fleete,
Them to dissolue, their thicknes is so great.
For no calme Aire of gentle Loue doth blow,
Where swelling Anger frets in furious show.

Thence doth my Tributarie Hart forth send,
Through peable stones, now here, now there along,
A little Brooke into the Sea to wend,
As signe that I my dutie would not wrong:
For Alba mine (Degree aboue Compare)
A large Sea is of sundrie Beauties rare.

A bitter cause, me bitter teares makes shed,
Whose enuious Stepdame is a Froward Will,
Which is by Selfe conceit too wanton fed,
Th' efficient cause that I these drops distill:
Which though in outward shew you white them see,
Yet pure Red blood they in my Bodie bee.

---

Let baseborne Mindes of basest matters create,
My selfe (with them) to trouble I not list:
The vulgar sort (they know not what) do speake,
VVhilst gainst the Truth and Vertue they persist.
Honor's the marke whereat I seeke to aime,
Shame light on them that think on beastly shame.

So many men, so many Mindes (they say)
Yet at the last Truth alwaies shall preuaile,
Bringing her vowed Foe vnto her bay,
Falshood (I meane) for all her masked Vaile.
No Woman blame I, only I do seeke,
Swanlike to sing, of my faire Sunne I leeke.

The Beauties which in other Ladies be,
I neuer had once thought for to disgrace
Mine Alba hath enough in store for me,
Thousand of Amours finde I in her face:
Her world I praise, whose looks haue pleasde me euer,
From whom in hart disioynd I will be neuer.

Faine would I make mine infant Pen to swell,
Through feruent zeale to blaze her Deitie,
That he her praise as Oracle might tell,
Raising the same t'the skies bright Canopie:
That she (since she deserues) might famous bee,
Beyond the Bounds of Albions vtmost Sea.

---

---

2. THE SECOND PART OF THE MONETHS MIND OF A MELANCHOLY LOVER.

---

Alla Crudelissima.

These few (yet zealous) line comes from my hart,
Dried with my Sighs, and written with my Teares,
I send to her the Author of my smart.
Though (subtill Serpent like) she stop her eares:
VVho, more to her I sue, her Grace to gaine,
The more incenst against me doth remaine.

I loue not I to pharisie, nor praise
My selfe, for to her owne selfe I appeale,
If I deuoted haue not bin alwaies,
To do her good, as one that sought her weale.
Heauens I forsweare, and vtterly abiure,
If that my Faith be tainted or vnpure.

Malleuolent, Malicious, Planet, Starre,
VVas it my Fortune, so for to be borne,
My Cote so true, to haue so crosse a Bar,
That for my seruice thus she should me skorne?
Must my cleere Sunne eclipsed be with Spite?
Must enuious Clowdes still seeke to dark my Light?

VVhat remedie? Ile think twas Fortune mine,
(And not her fault) that wrought me all this paine:
Her Crueltie twas not, but Destnie mine,
My selfe, not she, was cause of mine owne bane:
Yet shal ye world by this my Loves Months Mind,
Aghast Fault, though no Follie in her finde.

---

Since that mine Alba tooke her leaue of mee,
I leaue haue tooke of pleasure and of ioy:
And did with sorrow at that time agree,
To soiorne with him in his chiefe Annoy.
My Woes (still greene) encrease continually,
Which faine I would, but cannot remedie.

And were it not but that my dauntlesse Hart,
Doth comfort me with hope of better cheere,
I soone would rid me of this vncouth smart,
And leaue this life which I haue bought too deare.
Oft do I weep to Love, and him I pray,
Either to ease my paines, or me to slay.

Yet though I beg, I finde but small reliefe,
As do at Rich mens gates the Needy poore:
Who more they crie to aggrauate their griefe,
The lesse they finde their Almes at the doore.
So Love, the more my cries I to him send,
The lesse my plaints, he skornefull doth attend.

And yet my sute is small, small is the Grace
That I desire, (for somewhat I deserue)
Tis only for to die before her face,
From whom in Dutie (yet) I nere did swerue:
That she might know my life doth me annoy,
Vnles I might her company enioy.

---

Ladie, when first vpon faire Venus Day,
I came acquainted with thy seemely selfe,
And vowde thy loyall Votarie to stay,
Proffring to thee my liuing, life and welth:
As I was then, so am I still the same,
Neuer to change, for change exchangeth shame.

Within the Center of mine inward Hart,
(As signe of euerlasting Monument,
Which fatall Death shall hardly from me part)
Thy high prizde Loue full surely haue I pent,
Neuer to be remou'd, but there to lie,
World without end for aye, continuallie.

For thee I longde, for thee I much did dare,
For thee I hopte and feard, bid sweet and sower:
Liking thee, I for Others did not care,
Ore this my Hart thou hadst so great a power.
All other Faces, (in respect of thine)
I skornde as Masks, thou only seemst Diuine.

Since Love, then me with such affection framde,
That he hath me adopted Thine, alone,
That I delight not but to heare thee namde,
And only like to heare thy praises showne.
Ah keepe thy plighted Faith vnstainde to me,
Though now farre off from hence thou Absent be.

---

Disdaine assaulted hath mine Alba faire,
Fixing fast foot deep in her marble brest:
A blacksome Clowde hath darkt my beautious Aire,
Where cheerfull Sunne before with smile did rest.
She most vnlike her selfe a Tyrant showes,
Whilst as a Tiger mad with rage she growes.

All for her pleasure (me for to displease)
Pitie she bandies from her tender hart:
Poyson, not honey, now must her appease:
Yet my Desire runs headlong to his smart,
Headlong he runs to her spite-tainted minde,
Which ouer fierce and cruell he doth finde.

My hopeles Chance, through Vaile (as twere) I see,
Her quondam beautious eyes are bloodshot now:
Exorde, desirde, intreated, they'le not be,
They'le not relent, repent, nor yeeld or bow:
Lightnings of Anger they do shew aright,
Thunders of Furie darting forth despight.

The dangers great my harmeles Hart doth spie,
Yet for all this, from her he'le not retire:
And whilst more humble he fore her doth lie,
The more she sullen swels with wrathfull Ire.
A Monster then I may her mirorise,
Since she delights in such strange Tragedies.

---

Dried hath th' iniurious Feuer those faire Flowers,
VVhich in the cheekes of my faire Alba lay:
Scorcht are those paradized coloured Bowers,
Loves Lobbie where he wantonly did play:
Yet not extinguisht is mine amorous flame,
Some sparkes are yet remainders of the same.

As she lookes now, so lookes the Moone in skies,
When mongst the gloomie clowdes portending raine,
She with her watrie horned head forth pries,
Spreading abrode her dewie beames amaine:
So we Aurora vse for to depaint,
Mongst palish violets, when she looketh faint.

Pitie is mixt with griefe in her faire face,
And Griefe with Pitie in the same conioyne,
Where Love (though sick) sits with a louely grace,
In midst of sickly palenes in her eyne.
Sicknes it selfe so louely nere did looke,
But since her Inne in Albas breast she tooke.

That stately Haughtines she had before,
Now changde is into low Humilitie:
And that same glance that faithles was of yore,
Now faithfull sheweth and full of Loyaltie.
So with her Colour if she did Cruell take,
Yet Pitifull her Palenes doth her make.

---

Like bloodie Lion, or a stinging Snake,
With proud Disdaine to aggrauate my smart,
Loue into me (vnaskt) his way doth take,
Died all with blood, (and Blood tis of my Hart)
Which wounded deepe, still languishing doth lie,
Expecting euery minute when to die.

Thousands of Wounds my life hath quite bereft,
And wanting blood, Palenes sits in my face:
My soule this Corse (his mansion House) hath left,
Nor dares he back retire to his old place.
This Martyrdome, although there's many see,
None me caresseth, or doth comfort mee.

My Life runnes fondly to his mortall Foe,
Hoping for Help, where he his hurt did finde:
My spirits after him amaine doe goe,
Whilst liueles Bodie doth remaine behinde,
On which grim death doth seaze, as on his pray,
And of his breath to reaue him doth assay.

A farre off Peace I see, but Warre at hand,
Loue single strikes me, (but with double paine)
Kild is my hart by Cruell she's Command,
And he that slew him cleped is Disdaine:
Loe here of my kinde Dame the Exercise,
Hate is her Chapman, Blood her Marchandise.

---

Praxitiles, and Myron (workmen rare)
Apelles skilde, learnde Homer (famous wight)
Were these aliue, the Picture of my Faire
To carue, to cut, to paint, and thereof write,
In marble, brasse, boord, or in bookes at large,
They sone would faint, ore prest with so great charge.

And yet may be her beautious Countenance,
With chisell, toole, with pensell and with pen,
They rightly might haue shadowed (though by chance)
Because they, in their Age were rarest Men.
But had they come the nobler part to show,
Their cunning then had soone tooke th' ouerthrow.

If my bright Sunne (renowmd per Excellence,
Through the illustrious splendar of her gleames)
Doth dimme and darken our Intelligence,
By vertue of her more then radiant beames:
What Hand or Thought in hand could euer take,
A worke so endles, with good end to make?

Deare Alba I by thee am still forbid,
By Statue, Image, Picture, or by Verse,
To shew the Vertues rare within thee hid,
As not being able least part to rehearse,
It shall suffice (as sacred) I admire,
Thy spotles life, thy more then chast Desire.

---

To thee farre off (from me) these sighs I send,
To thee farre off from Loue, I, neere to die,
To know if thou thy selfe will minde wilt mend,
Desisting from thy hatefull Crueltie.
Beautie if it be milde, it is renound;
If it be proud, a foule reproch tis found.

Thou makst a shew as if thou wouldst be kinde:
But tis a shadow, not a substance right:
For comming vnto triall straight I finde,
Thy sdainfull chast lookes puts my Hope to flight:
Whilst thou dost seeme at these my Woes to grieue,
Yet them with succour neuer dost relieue.

Thy Griefe (for me) a passion's in a play,
Which men doth rauish with Melancholy:
But acted once, and out of sight away,
In minde, no longer there doth stay, but dy:
Thou art the Actor playing such a part,
My griefes neere deeply pearce into thy hart.

O would I could from Reasons Court obtaine,
A Supersedeas, Love for to remoue,
From out my Breast to thee to ease my paine,
That thou the force thereof a while mightst proue.
But Destnie wils that I thy slaue do stay,
And so I will, who bound is, must obey.

---

Why haue the Heauens thus changed mine Estate?
Deseruing well to complot my Decay?
Why rather was not so ordainde my fate,
That Alba nere should wend from me away?
I neuer changing my first vowed Loue,
Why should (vnconstant she) from me remoue?

(Fond man) is she vnconstant to be calde,
Who after course of world doth runne her race?
Are not all men by fortune puld and halde,
Neuer to bide (still) in one certaine place?
Nothing is more commended in the Sea,
Then th' often Ebbings, and the Flowings bee.

Ah Alba, if thou shouldst continue still
In one selfe place, t'would be a Paradise:
But thou (t'allay our proud Affections will)
T'eclipse thine owne perfections dost deuise,
Thinking it is enough, if but with eye
We ioy a small glimse of thy Maiestie.

Then to encrease our Griefes, thou dost decrease
Our pleasures, and thy selfe from vs dost hide,
When we for nothing lookt but peace and ease,
Euen at thy Best, and in thy Beauties pride.
But why talke I, where I cannot be hard?
Or heard she me, she would not me regard.

---

Where are my Vowes withouten number now?
My teares withouten measure that I shed?
My skalding sighs to make proud Alba bow?
They all are gone, forgot, quite banished.
Yet though they not deserue her loue they craue,
Me thinks some better fortune they should haue.

But if the Gods in iudgement partiall sit,
Vnequall viewers of each iniurie:
And with condigne reuenge seeke not to quit
So monstrous wrong, such nere heard Crueltie:
Why then I Reason none for Louers see,
That they should bide such paine for loyaltie.

Yet neither Hopes preferment, were it great,
Nor feare of punishment, though to my paine:
Nor counsell of the Wisest that entreat,
Nor company of best where I remaine,
Shall euer make me once my Humour change,
Nor from my first deuoted Vow to range.

My youths chiefe Flower (of all my life the prime)
In melancholy passion I will spend:
Careles behauiour shall my latter time
(Because (forsooke) she cares not for me) end.
Thus will I still continue during breath,
Doting on her, who doth deuise my death.

---

Fond that I am like Greekish Wrastler vaine,
Striuing to lift a waight impossible,
I caught so strange incurable a straine,
As thereby (brused sore) I brainsick fell:
Fixing my thoughts aboue my reach, I fall
Into Disease, without recure at all.

The stately Cedar whose tops seeme in show,
For height, to reach vnto the azur'd skie,
Neuer his head bowes to the shrubs below,
That in the deepe and hollow Valleys lie.
Th' yule that climing vp by th' elme doth runne,
Neuer can get hold of the beames of Sunne.

Alba I honor in humilitie,
Whom none ought, or should dare venter to loue:
Though I presume with importunitie,
Sometimes my sute (in vaine) to her to moue:
For her affections be immortall, rare,
Her vertues such as infinite they are.

Then suffer me to gaze on Alba mine,
With my mindes eyes, though absent now she be:
I knew when I enioyde her sight (ah happie time)
That time (I feare) I neuer more shall see.
But tis all one, for were the Cruell here,
I of my purpose should be nere the neere.

---

Am I so mad, to thinke that such a Toy,
As Sorcerie is, should ought preuaile for me,
That witchcraft power hath for to make me ioy;
And cause me here, mine absent Mistres see?
I cannot chuse but thinke all to be tales,
And that Enchantment little here preuailes.

What though the Sunne is darkened by this skill,
And Moone's remoude from out her setled cours;
Wilde beasts made stand, amazed, tame, and still,
And waters turnde from their first wonted sours:
Yet cannot Art, by force make setled Loue,
From his first Center (where he resteth) moue.

The Gods, not men, do rule the inward Hart,
They can appoynt Affection as they please;
Stones, Yearbs, and Words, may vsen be by Art;
Yet these the Louers griefes can smalely case,
Not Exorsisms, Spels, Mettals, Planets, Fire,
Can alter once the setled firme Desire.

Then Ile with Discontent be satisfied,
And hopeles liue in hope, though Hope in vaine:
Resoluing all base coynes to abide,
Since I despaire her grace for to obtaine:
Vnhappie I, my case ore desperate,
No Skill nor cunning can my paine abate.

---

Hard hap had I, to fall into thy hand,
Who giu'st thy selfe to endles crueltie;
When to thy flintie heart wilt giue command,
To change his wont, and somewhat gentler be?
Wilt thou thy Beautie faire, adulterise,
And seekst thou still on me to tiranise?

Ist possible thy yeares so few and small,
So many ancient mischiefes should containe,
Thy swelling pride, I long haue borne withall,
Because that Beautie thereof is to blame.
Which still the more in fairenes it exceedes,
The more it ioyes in coy disdained deedes.

I grieue at thy deuises gainst me wrought,
And sorrow, that wits sharper that they show,
The shroder and vnhappier should be thought,
Prone vnto ill, but vnto Goodnes slow.
But for so seeke to murther (through disdaine)
A harmeles heart, is worse then Murderers staine.

What moues thee then, thy selfe thus to disgrace,
Vnfitting for thy Sex, where nought should be
But kindenes milde; far altring from thy face,
Where nothing but rare beautie we can see?
If then so faire a Sunne, such foule cloudes hide,
Let me still in eternall Darkenes bide.

---

The bitter plaints wherewith my soule I wound,
With skalding sighs which smoke from forth my breast:
My cheekes through griefe, pale wan and hollow found,
My troubled Thoughts which reaue me of my rest:
Salt watrie teares, which raine from blubbring eye,
Warme blood from Hart distilling inwardly.

The seruile yoke which did my freedome breake,
My willing minde to doe what wild Command,
The state wherein I brought my selfe most weake,
The frost and fire wherein I still did stand,
The snare in which Love wrapt me so about,
As from the same I nere (yet) could get out.

All these, and many another worser griefe,
Are no such plagues as is that Marble Hart,
(That Marble Hart) that yeelds me no reliefe,
Nor euer sought some comfort to impart.
The reuolution of the Heauens, nor any Time,
Can make (that Breast) to yeeld to my Designe.

Vertue doth hinder it, in my despight,
Chaste Honestie maintaines her in her force:
Then Love farewell, all Hope Ile banish quite,
I see in Flint is found no kind remorse.
If Teares, Vowes, Gifts, Prayers, Othes no good can doe,
Nor Loue obtaine; in vaine tis then to sue.

---

Deare to my Soule (for Deare I may thee call,)
Since thou farre dearer then my selfe I holde,
When wilt thou rid me from this loathed thrall,
In which I am through Fancies bandes enrold?
When wilt thou keepe thy promise vnto mee?
Whereof no deedes, but words I yet can see.

Why (doubtfull still) doest thou my ioyes prolong?
And driuste me of, in dalliance without cause?
Me and thy selfe, why doest thou double wrong?
To keepe thy word, why, so long doest thou pause?
Thus for to lose thy golden Time, tis sin,
Which once being past, againe, thou canst not win.

Matters of state we vse to politize,
Procrastinating for aduantage great,
Love, lingring hates, and lothes to temporize,
Delaie's too colde, for his orewarmed heate:
Ah, doe not driue me of thus (still) in vaine,
Still for to lose tis much, once let me gaine.

Dearer to me then th' apple of mine eyes,
Let word and deede, but once for all agree,
Not any can in face thee equalize,
If but a little more thou kinde wouldst be.
Then with allusiue Sightes, feede not me still,
But graunt (at last) for to performe my will.

---

Ye lukewarme Teares which from my neredride eyes,
Streame downe amaine like fountaines day and night,
Wende to my Lady in most humble wise,
And shew to her, my most vnhappie plight:
Wende vnto her, who outwardly in shew,
Seemes pittifull, but (inward) is not so.

Weepe you to her and say; Ist possible
A Creature that so courteous seemes to all,
Shoulde haue a hart more cruell and more fell
Then Tiger, harder then a stony wall?
Ah why seemes she not inwardly as kinde,
As she death outward shew, the world to blinde?

This my Icarian soaring (boue my reach)
(Through Beautie, serenising fals my Hart)
How I ore bolde, may headlong fall doth teach,
Whilest Love doth play gainst me a subtile part:
Yet Beauties Birth I am, by her I breath,
Though liue against her fauour and her leaue.

Wilde fire with milke is quencht, rigor with teares;
Yet naught her stubborne minde can mollifie,
Vnto my prayers she stops her deafened eares,
And with Despayre requites my Courtesie,
Thus am I still starre crossed in my Loue,
As one be witcht, with whom no good doth proue.

---

How long shall I diue in this vastie Sea,
To finde this Perle, this Orient Margarite!
How long this bottome founding shall I be?
Yet nere attaine this precious lewell bright?
My labors (like to Hercules) abound,
Who more he did, the more to doe, stil found.

I am too weake with Ospraies eyes to looke,
Against the fierie beames of this faire Sun,
Too great a Burthen haue I fondly tooke,
For my weake shoulders long since ouercome.
The more I seeke, the farther I, to finde,
Like to the wretch, that of his sight is blinde.

My brused Bulwarke is not strong enough,
For to resist this beautious Batterie,
My yoke too small, to draw so huge a plough,
Mine eyes too dimme, such Brightnes to descrie:
This shewes, that as vnluckie I was borne,
To die vnfortunate I must not scorne.

Yet Ile not leaue to intercessionate,
To her hard Breast, for my too gentle Hart:
That if her Rigor she'le not mitigate,
At least she'le somewhat ease me of this Smart:
I onely craue, if she'le not yeelde reliefe,
T'adiourne my paine, and to proroge my Griefe.

---

Thrise trebble blessed Bracelet, rich in prise,
I enuie not thy perlie fret, nor golde,
But fortune thine, because in happie wise,
The place of perfect pleasure thou dost holde.
About that wrist thou turnst and windst so oft,
More white then Snow, then thistle down more soft.

Base mindes loue Golde, tis not thy Golde I steeme,
For this I onely value thee at much,
Because an Ornament th' art to be seene,
Of her white Hand yclept of right, Nonesvcm,
Nonesvch indeede, whose Beautie is so rare,
As nere the like, attainde the perfects Faire.

This is the cause so highlie I thee rate,
As all the golden Mines of Indian ground,
Nor Seas of Pearle can counteruaile thy state,
Wherein thou art this present to be found.
And, if that trueth I shall confesse indeede,
The wealth of all the world thou dost exceede.

But when I marke, how by strange cunning Art,
Faire louelie Haires, with Pearle and Golde conioyne,
A pleasing ioy doth seaze vpon my Heart,
Whilest with strange pleasures, Fancie feeds my mind:
So as (sweete Bracelet) thou dost rightly proue,
To be th' enchantment of bewitching Love.

---

Liue Louely Fame, which when thou first didst take,
Possession of my Heart, wert stony colde,
And bashfull; but when entrance thou didst make,
Then, as Triumphant thou didst keepe thy holde:
Changing both Thought & state, that where before
Colde chillie Yce was, hot Desire burnt sore.

If I thee honor, worship, serue, and loue,
He knowes, who guides the restles Globe on high,
But enuious Fates on me their force doe proue,
And me, from thee haue banisht spitefully.
So that more paine I doe each houre abide,
Then if that thousands sorts of deaths I dide.

But fore that peereles matchles shape of thine,
(The better part wherein my Soule doth rest)
Shall out of minde, or memory of mine,
(Whereby I only happy liue and blest,)
All things shall chaunce, impossible that be,
My selfe, forget my selfe will I, fore thee.

The Sunne shall lose his power, and darke become,
The Skies shall melt, and into horror fall,
The earth shall sinke, the world be quite vndone,
And fore this chance, all strange things happen shall.
Though (now) thou bidste in Albions fruitfull land,
And I, where Mantuan Duke, his Court doth stand.

Mantua.

---

Such as do liggen in Delight and ioy,
And haue what Hart can wish, or Thought deuise,
Spending their time withouten dire Annoy,
Liuing amongst their friends in iocondwise,
And who with Loue of Ladies theirs are blest,
May in Eternam Requiem, happie rest.

Me, sillie Trauailer (a pilgrim poore)
(Who through hard hap these blessings all do misse)
Care doth become, since want I do endure
Of Countrie, Friends, and Loue, my chiefest blisse:
And yet this Care not Ill, but well, with mee,
Obseruing still Decorum doth agree.

A Trauailer, farre from his Natiue coast,
With Care doth rise, with Care him downe doth lay:
And though from piller tost he be to poste,
When All him leaue, yet Care with him doth stay.
Not like vaine pleasure, who away doth peake,
When he his Bark through want perceiues to leake.

Thanks then to Care, of Poore the comfort chiefe,
The best companion that we Strangers finde,
In Countries strange forlorne, without reliefe,
Who quiet, gentle, patient is and kinde.
Then constant Care, not Comfort I do craue,
And (might I chuse) I Care with L. would haue.

---

This Tower, this Castle, this huge Prison strong,
Begirt with high and double fenced Wall,
(Where I to be kept prisoner, thus haue wrong)
Can neuer hurt, nor do me harme at all:
Since I was pent here, I am (nothing changde)
But as before, when I abrode still rangde.

This place restraines my Bodies libertie,
But hath no power ouer my Thoughts or Minde,
VVhich is the cause I count my selfe most free,
Though I my selfe in greatest Bondage finde,
I can so feede on Fancie, and subdue
Enuie, by sweet Imagination true.

No sweeter Musick to the Miserable,
Than is Despayre: therefore the more I feele
Of bitternes, of sorrow sower and fell,
The more of Sweetnes it doth seeme to yeeld.
Vaine esteeme my life, all libertie,
Since I do want mine Albas Companie.

Vse, Miserie hath made familiar now
VVith me, that I count sorrow chiefest Ioy:
And him the welcomst Guest I do alow,
That saddest tales can tell of bloodiest Noy.
Then (Cruell) think what life I still haue led,
Since so in post away from me th' art fled.

---

Thrice precious purse, by daintie Hand ywrought,
Of Beauties First Borne, Fauours rightfull Heire,
Not for a world of wealth, purchast or bought,
But freely giuen (for Loue) by Alba faire:
Giuen to me, vnworthie of the same,
As one not meriting so great a Gaine.

Tis not the richnes hereof, though tis much,
Nor rarenes of the worke surpassing skill,
That I account of, though that it be such,
As euery eye, with masement it doth fill:
But cause t'was made by that Alconquering Hand,
Whose becke, euē Loues own self doth countermād.

Dan Fortunatus Bagge, which Histories
Affirme, endles to be for golden store,
And that it helde of Quoyne Infinities,
To this my purse is needy, base and poore,
Golde in the inside (onely) of his purse was seene,
But mine, hath (alwaies) Golde without and in.

Pure gold tis wrought with, yet her Haires more bright,
Saft is the Silke, more saft her snowie skinne,
Orient the Perle, yet are her teeth more white,
The Cullers rare; her cheekes the prise, tho winne:
Ah precious Purse, where what I doe beholde,
Are Cullours rare, fine Perle, saft Silke, pure Golde.

---

Warme showers raine fast from forth my blubbred eyes,
My heauie Thoughts are Clowdes replete with woes:
Hot liuely Flames from out my breast arise,
My skalding sighs the wind's that forth them blowes:
Fire burning Cancer and Aquarius cold,
Ore me their powers predominant do hold.

The flames, themselues vp to the heauens lift,
Where they by thousands round about doe turne:
The waters runne like to a Torrent swift;
Hence comes it that my selfe I drowne and burne,
By reason of two spitefull Qualities,
(Moysture and Heate) my life in danger lies.

My teares a great streame make, they so abound,
A quenchles burning this my secret Fire:
Hope doth despaire, and there her selfe hath drownde,
And Hart to cinders burnes through hot Desire:
Fancie doth frolike, and doth still reuiue,
Reason's so sick, not long sheele keepe aliue.

Alba my Teares accounteth as a Toy,
And for a sport mine ardent Heat she holds:
For in her eyes, Cocitus (me to noy)
And Phlegeton in breast she fierce enfolds.
Thus she my Hart doth still anatomise,
With keenest rasor of her Crueltise.

---

Haires louely Browne immur'd with pearle and gold,
How ill fits you this Ribbon Carnatine,
Since I no more your Mistris now behold,
Of my disaster, most vnlucky signe,
Who to me gaue this Bracelet for a Favovr,
A work by Beautie framde through Loves true labour.

How often would she, bout my Wrist still prie,
And vnderminde me (by deuise) as twere,
Making a shew of Doubt and Ielousie,
As if I it forgot bout me to beare?
But now I feare me, through her staying ore long,
Both Love, Her self, and Me, she much doth wrong.

VVho euer saw a Beautie such, so faire,
Lodgde in a subiect so vnconstant found?
Who euer saw more loyall Louer rare,
To such hard Fortune (causeles) to be bound?
Ah why is not (as is her face) her Minde?
Th' one's Faire, the other, I Forgetfull finde.

Then louely Haires, my dearest Harts best Ease,
You must from Handwrist mine to Hatband black:
There must you bide, though me it doth displease,
Since whom I would, I most of all do lack.
This sable place doth fit you best to mourne,
Where you vnseene, shall lie till she returne.

---

Ah happie Handkercher, that keepst the signe,
As only Monument vnto my Fame)
How deare my Loue was to sweet Alba mine,
VVhen (so) to shew my Loue she did me blame.
Relique of Love I do not enuie thee,
Though whom thy Master cannot, thou dost see.

Only let me intreat this Fauour small,
VVhen in her chamber all alone by chance,
Open her pretie Casket for some work she shall,
And hap her eye on thee vnwares to glance:
Ah, then the colour of her face but marke,
And thou by that shalt know her inward hart.

If she shall blush, and grieue, thee so to view,
And wistly cast on thee a piteous eye,
It is a signe her loue continues true,
And that her faith she doth not falsifie.
Ah, then (a fresh) (her faith more firme to moue)
Bleed thou againe, for to reuiue her Loue.

But if she (seeing thee) no account doth make,
Flinging thee here and there without regard:
Know then expired is my louing Date,
My Hope deceiu'd, my Fortune ouer hard.
Yet if she doth but sighing say to thee,
(Saftly) (Farewell deare Servant) happie mee.

---

Those ebbon windowes sweete, those cheerfull eyes,
Where Love (at Lavvgh and sweete looke on) doth play,
Are on the sudden changde in strangie wise,
And do Disdaines Ensigne (gainst me) display:
Darke now they seeme, and sower, ore passing bad,
Making my life seeme to me black and sad.

Those cheerfull eyes, which wont to comfort me,
And to mine hungrie soule yeeld nourishment,
Denie me food, nor will they pleased be,
But mew me vp, as starueling closely pent.
My walks I vsde, which faire and easie were,
Are stopt with blood-drawing brābles euery where.

My crased hart thus skorned for his Loue,
And plagude with proud disdaine and sdainfull Pride,
Wailes so as would a Rock (though flintie) moue:
Nor better course hath this Disgrace to bide,
Then sighs and Teares, which forth he sends apace,
And damned like) still begs, but nere finds grace.

Sweet stay of my weake tottring life nie falne,
Balme to my wounds, and Cordiall to my griefe,
Light to my darknes, to my storme, milde Calme,
Ease to my paine, and to my want, Reliefe.
Ah who hath now (and that so suddenly)
Of pitie thee depriu'd, to make me die?

---

Poore wafted Hart that wandrest not astray,
Although thy Pearle her orient colour change:
Thou, which in thy first Faith vnstaind dost stay,
Although she from her plighted vow doth range.
Ah, where are now thy cheerfull daies of Hope?
Thy Liues line, Loue, what wretched hād hath broke?

Alas, poore soule, how badly art thou vsde,
For thy much louing (louing ouer long?)
Causeles without desert to be refusde,
And for thy right to be repaid with wrong?
(Fond) do betimes from Fancies Fort retire,
Reason retaine, and banish rash Desire.

What meanst thou careles thus to seek thy Care?
Call home thy Wits, giue ore although with losse:
Els like one blindfold art thou caught in snare,
And wilt too late returne by weeping crosse.
Seest not that shut is Loues sweet passage plaine,
That opens wide the path of proud Disdaine?

If so, why shouldst thou beg (in vaine) for grace?
Rather demaund thy pasport and away:
Better at first giue ore in midst of Race,
Then lose in th' end, though longer time thou stay.
Then if she'le not admit thee as a frend,
Let her thee manumit (as Free) to wend.

---

O that I were where bides mine Alba faire,
VVhose person to possesse is pleasure such,
As driues away all melancholy Care,
Which doth the Hart through Griefs impression touch
Whose louely Locks All do more curious deeme,
When they most careles to be dressed seeme.

Her sweet Lookes most alluring be, when they
Most chaste do seeme in modest glancing show:
Her words, the more they vertuously do way,
The more (in count) for amorous they go:
Her dressings such, as when neglected most,
She's thought as then to haue bestowd most cost.

Sweet Fortune, when I meet my louely Treasure,
Dash my Delights with some small light disgrace,
Lest I (enioying sweetnes boue all measure)
Surfet without recure on that faire face.
Her wonted coynesse let her vse a while,
My fierce Desire by Diet to beguile.

Lest with the fulnes of my ioyes, abate
The sweetnes, and I perish straight before
I do possesse them, at too deare a rate.
But soft (Fond Icarus) how high wilt soare?
Thou dreamst I think, or foulie dost mistake,
I dreame indeed, Ah might I neuer wake.

---

Like as the Hawke cast from the Faulkners fist,
Freed from the Mew doth (ioyfull) take his flight,
Soaring aloft in th' aire as best him list,
Now here, now there, doth finde no small delight,
Enioying that, which Treasures all doth passe,
(His libertie) wherefore he prisoner was.

But when th' acquainted Hollow he doth heare,
And seeth the Lure cast forth him home to traine,
As one obedient full of awfull feare,
He leaues his flight, and backward turnes againe,
Chusing in ancient bonds for to be bound,
Fore faithles to his Lord he will be found:

So (Alba) though I wanton, otherwhile,
Do runne abrode, and other Ladies court,
Seeking the time with pleasures to beguile,
And oft my selfe with words of course do sport,
Dissembling with Dissemblers cunninglie,
As is the guise, with tongue, with hand, and Eye.

Yet when I thinke vpon thy face diuine,
Thy Beautie cals me home, straight as a Lure,
All other banishing from Hart of mine,
And in Loves Bands to thee doth binde me sure.
And since my Faith, and Fates do so ordaine,
I am content thy prisoner to remaine.

---

Where are those Haires so louely Browne in show?
Where is that snowy Mount of Iuorie white?
With damaske Rose where do the Lillies grow?
Whose Colours & whose sweetnes All delight?
Where are those cheerfull Lights, Lamps of cleere Loue,
Wherein, a beautious Heauen doth alwaies moue

Where are those Margarite Pearles withouten prise,
And Rubies rich (my matchles Treasures store)
With other Graces, wonders to the Wise,
Worthy that euery Lawrell them adore?
I know not I, vnles in her they be,
In Her who's Faire, Alas too Faire for me.

VVhy haue not then my Stars so courteous bin,
In this to me, as they are in the rest,
That I by loftie stile might Beautie win,
And blaze abrode her praise deseruing best?
VVhy haue not I the Gift, her Gifts to thunder,
And make the world thereat admire and wonder!

Could I (but as she doth deserue aright)
Sing as a Cignet sweete with pleasing vaine,
Her Vertues rare, her staining Beauties sight,
As I am blunt in Wit, and dull in Braine,
I then should see, her Courteous, Gentle, Milde,
VVhere now I finde her, Cruell, Proud and Wilde.

---

Needes must I Alba leaue, yet she'le not part,
Though I doe loue her, yet still my Desire,
Seekes her to keepe in Closet of my Hart;
And though she doth against me thus conspire,
Yet with my Soule, I must her Error moane,
Since so vnkindelie she her selfe hath showne.

My secret griefes Ile in my selfe disiest;
The world shall neuer know her hatefull Pride,
Her shame (my Bane) I will conceale in brest,
And as a Monument there shall it bide.
Alba farewell, all pittie now is fled,
And since tis so, Adew, I am but Dead.

But thou (my Hart) come thou from her thy way;
Tis time (I thinke) to leaue that witching face,
Where too too much vnkindenes still doth stay;
For Loyall Loue, there is no resting place.
Simple Goodwill, to soiourne findes it vaine,
Where Thoughts are falls, and Double do remaine,

My nere stainde Faith, my life shall testifie,
To future Age, that shall hereafter come,
To shew the world my spotles Loyaltie:
And yet perhaps againe may shine the Sunne,
When as my Trueth vnto her being knowne,
She may at last receiue me for her owne.

---

---

3. THE THIRD PART OF THE MONETHS MIND OF A MELANCHOLY LOVER.

---

Alla Crudelissima.

Lo here the course spun Web of Discontent,
Extract from out the cause of my trew Griefe,
The Quintesence of my Complaint close pent,
Wherein my Hart hath line without reliefe:
The Glasse wherein my sorrowes each may see,
Thou cruell Alba, thus haste plagued me.

Thinke on the Mestfull Months Minde I still keepe,
Depriude of thee, how I doe liue forlorne,
All night I sigh, all day I waile and weepe,
As one that hath all pleasures quite forsworne:
Thus (carefull I) doe care for careles thee,
Whilst wretchles thou, makst no account of mee.

Knewst thou what t'were to Loue, and what to hate,
I know with Malice thine thou wouldst dispence,
And wouldst enhaunce my Bale to blissefull state,
And Loue with Loue, not Rigor recompence;
Ah gainst me doe not thou thy wrath incite,
Monstrous it is, Loue to repayde with spite.

Be gracious then, though I haue graceles bin,
Let Fauour thine, aboue my Merit show,
Against the Tide, why shouldst thou alwaies swim;
And as a froward Tortoys backeward goe?
Not Night, but Light giue me with those faire Eyes,
Fierce Serpents (not milde Doues) enuenomise.

---

To thee (Deare Faire) that mak'st me fare amisse,
To thee my Goddesse I my prayers make,
And prostrate fall before thy Shrine of Blisse,
Crauing of thee, that them in worth thou take,
Whilest I to thee my Hart in humble wise,
Vpon thy beautious Altar sacrifise.

Peruse with kindenes this my sad complaint,
Since I with pacience doe abide the paine,
And but thy willing eare herewith acquaint,
So thy remembrance not forget the same:
Thy hart gainst me, not still induratize,
But my sad thoughts in me retranquillize.

I will not leaue, vntill I leaue to loue,
(And leaue to loue, I will not till I die)
But thy hard flintie Breast, Ile somewhat moue,
To moane my Griefe, the cause I alwaies crie.
Crie will I to thee till my Voyce be hoarse,
And neuer leaue thee till thou take remorse.

From thy faire eyes the Sunnes Precursors bright,
This fire hath sprung, which all my parts doth burne,
No Art-Enammeld lines that I do write,
No praies nor praiers, to Mercie thee can turne:
Yet come the worst, the Age (to come) shall say,
I bare the prize for Constancie away.

Burnham.

---

Now earthly Goddesse haue thou some regards
To me thy seruant, crauing what is iust,
Though long at last, yeelde to me some rewarde,
Since I relie on thee, and wholy trust.
Thinke on the pennance sore I doe endure,
Which to my Soule, thine Absence doth procure.

Support my feeble Thoughts, that scarse can moue,
For thou wert wont, such, better to commend,
Who would persist more loyall in their Loue,
And perseuere vnto the latest end,
Then those, who whē Loues course they gan to run,
Would giue it ore, before halfe way were done.

I cannot doe so, for my longing Hart,
Is knit in thine, in such perfection strange,
That Death these twaine in sunder cannot part,
Nor length of Time, nor Places distance change:
Thy Beautious Vertue, Vertuous Beautie tis,
That makes me ioy in noy, take Bale for blis.

Ah where art thou kinde Friendship that of yore,
Still with thy cheerefull smile, didst comfort mee?
And sweetely wouldst with me my state deplore,
When heauie, sad, and grieu'd thou didst me see?
Ah where are those Alcinoi daies as now?
I Metamorphosde am, I know not how.

---

Cleere shines the Sonne, yet shines it not on me,
Faire is the Morne, yet darkened is my Light,
Others the Spring, I Fall of leafe doe see,
Whilest I enioy no Day, but gloomy Night;
Thou art the cause (sweete Alba for thy Loue,
In absence thine) these bitter Brunts I proue.

Whilest thou like Princesse entertained art,
By thy kinde Tenants in most dutious wise,
Seeking to shew the zeale of their pure Hart,
By all the pleasing meanes they can deuise.
Striuing who shall thee better entertaine,
(Signes of thy welcome home to them againe.)

I here am left alone, all poste alone,
As Loves true Pledge, that lies for Faith to Pawne,
Onely to waite thy parture and to mone,
Whilest my Conceits on Sorrowes Tent are drawne,
Like to the Bird, on solitarie branch,
Wailing his Mates sowre losse through hard mischāce.

Then louely thou my Harts deare Treasurer,
Let me obtaine this Fauour at thy Grace,
That thou delay no longer nor defer,
But daine me once more, see thy heauenly face.
Else here I vow, (if so thou come not soone)
Me, shalt thou not see, thou shalt see my Toome.

---

Now that my weary spirits do runne their race,
To those transplendent Lamps of Alba faire:
And gazing there (in vaine) do plead for grace,
Leauing their ancient lodging nakte and bare.
She as their Foe stands on her Brauerie,
And passage to their Entrance doth denie.

They finding shut fast close milde Pities gate,
And seeing in what danger I remaine,
With haste returne from whence they came of late,
Retiring to their wonted Home againe,
Where they repose, of Hope quite dispossest,
And there with Feare and Care together rest.

Disdaine those eyes spoyles, that before were bright,
And fierce Desire, that to reuenge hath minde
Increaseth still in hart to worke me spite,
Deuising how to make her more vnkinde:
The repaye, the Bellowes vnto Furie blowes,
The other, Slaue to wrathfull Anger showes.

But though to me she seemes as pitilesse,
Seeking my Death, without cause to conspire:
Yet will I beare with all wrongs nere the lesse,
Resolu'd to bide the vtmost of her Ire:
Against her wrath Ile true and Humble be,
For Faith's my Fence, my Shield's, Humilitie.

---

Poore Meleager being in disdaine,
With furious Altea (cruell mother his)
She flang his fatall Brand in firie flame,
Long time kept by her, (as her chiefest blis)
So as through fire it did (consumde) decay,
His wretched life did peece-meale waste away.

Altea, mine Alba is, Meleager, I,
The fatall Brand where bides my life, her Loue:
No longer then she keepes this happely
For me, no longer may my spirits moue.
Long time Affection kept it, but as now,
She flings it in the flame with angrie brow.

Anger's the Fire, Suspect kindles the Flame,
Conceit's the Bellowes, wherewith she doth blow:
Haste was the hand which flung it in the same,
The Coles, Vnkindnes, that did burne it so.
Ah, but one drop of Water of her Grace,
If so I had, twould quencht be in small space.

Thus do I burne, and burning breathe my last,
And breathing last, to naught consume away:
Like to that Lampe whose Oyle when it doth waste,
By lesser light, and lesser doth decay.
Yet in this Fire I crie still for to moue her,
Ah pitie me th' vnhappiest loyall Louer.

---

Thou solitarie Mountaine, Mount of Mone,
Pleasing to me, mine only solace chiefe,
How like are we? we two seeme but as One,
Since thou shewst sad, and I still, to haue Griefe,
Thou with wilde sauadge Woods art compast round,
And in my Breast sharp austere Thoughts are found.

The huger Hill in bignes thou dost show,
The more, (All) thee vncouth and sauadge deeme:
The more that I in yeares in Loue do grow,
The more deformed Creature I do seeme.
Water from thee, from euery side doth come,
And teares from our mine eyes as Fountaines run.

Thou dost abide the blustring furious winde,
The paine of skalding sighs perforce I feele:
Tempests and stormes, to thee are oft vnkinde,
But worse to me is Albas Hart of steele:
Thou strooken art by Ioues sire from aboue,
And I am blasted with Lightning of Loue.

Thou wantest Fruit, and I am without Hart,
Only in this my Griefes do thine exceede,
That where as thou insensible still art,
I (liuing) feele too well the Brunt indeede.
Yet wert thou worse I like in thee to stay,
Since that my Pearle, mine Alba's gone her way.

---

O that I might my Griefes set downe at large,
And to the world make knowne mine Iniurie:
But I not dare, the Cruell giues in charge
Them to keepe close, and This beare patientlie:
Being so grieuous, as but part to know,
Would make the flintiest Hart to split for woe.

Besides, if I my Crosses should reueale,
They would renew my sorrowes fresh againe:
Therefore I vowed haue them to conceale,
The more to feele the depth of lasting Paine:
Reaping not only discontent hereby,
But all Despayre of future remedie.

How secret haue I bin, this seuen whole yeare,
That scarce I haue not yet, nor yet scarce dare
To tell her Name, I so much still do feare,
To purchase th' anger of this sdainfull Faire?
How Faithfull, that haue offred her to please,
To dye for her? so ought I might her ease.

But what auailes all this? for all my griefe,
I cannot hope she euer will be kinde:
When she was present I nere found reliefe,
And (in her absence) think you she'le me minde?
O no, as likelie tis, she'le pitie mee,
As I am like (vnlikely) her to see.

---

So great a griefe did neuer pearce the Hart,
Of any louing Mother ouer kinde,
When she her only sonne readie to part,
Doth see to forraine Countrie gainst her minde,
Losing the staffe of her old Age and stay,
On whom the Hope of all her Comfort lay;

As wofull I, when I those louely Eyes
Saw to looke back, which I should see no more
Of many daies, and when in pitious wise,
They shewd by signes Our parting grieu'd them sore.
Ah when her last looke back on me she cast,
Then, then, I thought I should haue breath'd my last.

Yet for my Harts sake did my spirits reuiue,
And life once more recouered they againe,
Whilst staring after her I kept aliue,
And thought that I (not seeing her) saw her plaine.
Long time my Powers were got into my sight,
Deluding me with pleasing false Delight.

But now that her rare Beautie liues els where,
Ile waile with teares her Absence, (my Disgrace)
With weeping I my sight away will weare,
Which skornes to looke on any but that Face.
Eyes be Recluses, you can weep no more,
And (Hart) since She is gone, weep bloody gore.

---

Ye Hoarie Hils and Icie waters colde,
If what fresh Aprill giues, sharp Ianiuere
To take away from you himselfe shewes bolde:
Yet quickly doth the Sunne with pleasing cheere,
Restore to you your Liueries greene againe,
And flowring Banks longst which you streme amain.

But now to me, from whom mine Alba faire,
Still hides her selfe, all Hope is withered quite:
Nor will she shew her selfe, to ease my Care,
For thy yong Plant an enuious frost doth bite,
Since that same hart that gentle was of yore,
Hardning it selfe gainst me, still swelleth more.

Nature (you) gouernes, but Loue rules ore mee;
Nature is louing as a Mother kinde,
Loue, worse then cruell Stepdame is to see,
And to my losse (gainst conscience) doth me binde,
Taking from me mine ancient Priuiledge
Whereby I liue, my daies for to abridge.

Then happie Hils you shall be greene againe,
And blessed Springs your Courses you shall holde:
But if that she reuiue not that hath slaine,
I soone shall dye, Conceit is growne so colde,
Lest her warme Sunne glide hither it to thaw,
My freezing Hart no more his breath shall draw.

---

How long shall I knock at that Iron Gate,
Of thy hard Hart, for mercie? (but in vaine?)
How long my Griefes to thy deaffe eares relate,
And reape nought els but trauell for my paine?
Yet still Ile hope, since Acornes, Okes become,
And tynie drops proue Floods that streaming runne.

Thy face is faire, yeeld Fauour then to mee;
Thy hart is flesh, not bone, then gently show;
Ah let thy Loue with thy sweet Cheere agree;
And to attonement we shall quickly grow:
My Loue which is to thee more then extreame,
Requite not with a fortune, ouer meane.

If thou shouldst be Vnfaithfull in thy Loue,
VVhere should I flie for succour, or for Truth?
If th' owlt not heare my sute, whom should I moue?
If thou be Cruell, who will then shew Ruth?
If thou Deceit shalt vse, twill likely be,
Others dispence will with deepst subtiltie.

More triall then th' hast had thou canst not haue;
(How oft) my secret Harts depth wilt thou sound?
Wilt thou my blood spill when thou maist it saue?
When thou maist heale my Grief, still wilt thou wound?
Ah do not (Surgion like) Anatomise,
Each muskle of my griefe in cruell wise.

---

Sick in my lothed Bed I languish fast,
Nor can my learned Doctor help me ought,
His cunning now is at the latest cast,
Yet he no ease to crased me hath brought.
And marueile none though he no help can finde,
Sick am I not in Bodie, but in minde.

My hart each houre doth worse and worser proue,
And my Disease encreaseth more and more,
Because he wants her sight whom I doe loue:
Nor can I haue a salue for this my sore,
Lesse so much labour, Love for me doth take,
As my Phisition, Alba faire to make.

Sick is my soule, my Body languisheth,
Th' one's farre from health, the other's nothing nie:
So as I doubtfull loue, scarce drawing breath,
Twixt feare and hope in this extremitie.
A strange Consumption hath me wasted long,
And for a Pearle restoratiue I long.

This for me, then all Phisick is most sure,
Or els I doubt I neuer shall be whole:
For whilst that Nature would my Bodie cure,
Loue pestilenzing) doth infect my soule.
Then Alba shew now if thou be'st Diuine,
Raise Dead to life, for now, or nere tis time.

---

Why should I loue, when I am loathed still?
And praise her still, who seekes me to dispraise?
Why should graue reason yeelde to headstrong will,
My Griefes the more to multiplie and raise.
I doe commit Idolatrie extreme
With her, whom I should rather right blaspheme.

Fire if it warme not, for no Fire we deeme,
The Sunne, no Sunne we count, except it shine,
Water, no water, but it wet doe seeme,
Vertue, no Vertue, lest it show some signe;
No Woman is she, thats not pitifull,
Rather Prices Spaune, a nice disdainefull Trull.

Haue I transgrest the Boundes of Modestie?
Whispering vndecent speeches in her Eare,
Or haue I (ere) assailde her Chastitie,
And sought the spoyle thereof away to beare
If I haue shamde my self in such grosse wise,
Why then she reason hath me to despise.

Ah, no, far be it from my harmeles Thought,
Such base vnseemely tricks to her to moue,
A matter small it was (God knowes) I sought,
Onely to be Retainer to her Loue.
No scandall t'is, t'is no Disparagement,
Seruice t'accept, where naught but Honors ment.

---

Faine would I take of quiet sleepe the Say,
My wearied Corse with ease for to delight,
But I no wished rest can finde by Day,
Nor slumber sweetely in my bed by Night.
No rest I wretched man as yet can take,
My woes are such, as force me still to wake.

My Trueth is measured by my Fortune hard,
And (I poore soule) Vnfaithfull iudged am,
Because I seeme Vnhappie; and am bard
Frō all good Chance: (Gainst right) I beare the blame,
But willingly; (since she doth will) I shall,
Whose Absence turnes my Hony into Gaule.

Yet faine I slumber would, though but a while;
But if I cannot with that Fode be fed,
I will embrace (the time for to beguile)
Such golden Thoughts as are within my head.
Golden indeede, Golde Thoughts of such a one,
As I prefer fore Golde, though she a Stone.

But sleepe, or die, Then, dye, thou canst not sleepe,
For thee to sleepe it is impossibell,
To thinke what's past, broade waking will thee keepe:
Which thou must still conceale, not any tell.
My comfort's this, that waking as I die,
I see my Loue in Thought, though not with eye.

---

Pure Iuorie, white with spot of Crimson red,
Where Beauties First Borne lay the perfect Molde,
Or like Aurora rising from her Bed,
Such was mine Alba faire for to beholde.
Such was She, when She louely Love ore came,
The Conquerors Glory, Conquereds Pleasing Shame.

But now that Cullor faire hath changde his grace,
Through Burning Feuer, (deadly in his kinde)
And Sallow Palenes stained hath that Face,
To whome the Prize for Fauour was assinde,
Sicke is my Lady, sicke is all Delight,
And brightest Day is turnde to darkest Night.

Fortune hath stolne from Alba, tooke from Love,
From him she takes his, Solace, Sport and Play;
From Her her Beautie which she would improue,
And to her selfe, would (falsely it conuay.
Being Pitifull she Cruell seemes to be,
And in her Blindenes sheweth that she can see:

False Fortune darke as Molle in any Good,
But to doe Hurt, as Argus, full of Eyes,
In outward shew, a Tiger fierce and wood:
And yet to me she's Kinde in piteous wise.
Since She, by drawing Beautie from that place,
Quencht hath my Fier, to ease me for a space.

---

My Harte vpon his Deathbed, sicke, did lye,
Calling vpon proude Alba but in vaine;
Too Cruell she, (for pittie) it did crie,
Yet had Repulse through Rigor of Disdaine.
So as to liue thus (long) it could not bide,
But soone gaue vp the Ghost, and so he dide.

Then to the Chappell of bad Fortuna harde,
By smoking sighes it quickelie was conuaide,
A place for these sad Funerals preparde,
Where in a Tombe of Loyaltie t'was laide.
Anger, Suspect, Griefe, Sorow, Care, and Feare,
VVith dismall Doubtes, the chiefest Mourners were.

About the Hierce, great store of Teares were shed,
The Torches that did burne so cleare and bright,
VVere Albas eyes by Crueltie misled,
VVhilest she triumpht to see so wofull sight.
Pittie the Dirge did sing with wofull Plaint,
Assisted with a blacke and dismall Saunt.

Vpon the Monument yplaced was,
Fire, Sworde, and Corde, with Arrowes sharpe & keene,
The Epitaph (for such as by should pas)
VVas thus subscribde, and carued to be seene.
Loe here that gentle Hart entombde doth lie,
Whom cruell Alba causeles, forst to die.

---

Poore Soule, in couert ioy, thy Care sauns rest,
VVeare VVillow in thy Hat, Baies in thy Hart,
Gold when it bubleth least, then boyles it best,
VVater runs smoothest in the deepest part.
By thy great warines let it be seene,
Not what thou now art, but what thou hast beene.

The greatest comfort (as a Louers dew)
Is, of his Mistris Secrets, much to know,
Yet no lesse labor for him (being Trew)
Then naught to say, nor ought thereof to show,
Of men we learne to speake, things to reueale,
Of Gods, silent to be, and to conceale.

Yet sweete's the Beautie of mine Alba faire:
What blabst thou it? yea blab it willinglie,
Bees that doe die with honey, buried are,
With dulcet notes, and heauenly Harmonie;
And they that dying, doe Beautie still commend,
Shall be with kindenes honored in the end.

Then hope thou well, and haue well (as they say)
Long haue I hopte, but Hoping is in vaine,
Hope with Allusions, dallying doth me pay,
Yet but for Hope, the Hart would breake in twaine.
Ah Melt my Hart, would Melted once thou were,
Thou shouldst not then haue cause so much to feare.

---

The Fall of Leafe, the Spring tide of my Loue,
Flowring a fresh with Hope I found to bee:
But now (alas) the Spring time for to proue,
Fall of the Leafe of my lost Loue I see.
The Carnouale of my sweet Love is past,
Now comes the Lent of my long Hate at last.

Love is reuolted, whilst he (Traytor like)
Against his prince (gainst me his Soueraigne)
Weapons vniust (sauns cause) takes vp to fight,
And doth his fealtie and his Homage staine.
He is reuolted and mine Alba's fled,
I seeme aliue here, yet in deede am dead.

In vaine I wish for what I cannot haue,
And seeke with griefe to aggrauate my Mone:
What is to me denied, that still I craue,
Gaulling my selfe with fond Conceits alone:
Yet I forgiue her, little knoweth she,
That she her owne Hart wounds, when she kils me.

Meane time in vncouth Sorrowes secret Cell,
My haples Fortune hard I will disiest,
Hating all ioy, I priuat there will dwell,
Because I of my wish am dispossest.
Like Petrark chaste of Laura coy I plaine,
Of whom I (neuer yet) could Fauour gaine.

---

How long shall I importune thee with Cries,
And presse thee for some Grace (bard flintie Dame?)
How long my sute deplore in pitious wise,
And yet be frustrate of that I complaine?
Vrge me with ought if so thou canst of Ill,
Do but obiect, and answer thee I will.

Cite me at Loves great Audit to appeare,
And if a iust account I giue not thee
Of all my Life, since Loyall I did sweare
Vnto thy Cruell selfe, casheere thou mee:
But if I true haue bin and dealt vpright,
Thou dost me wrong to set by me so light.

More then high time tis for thee to relent,
My sorrowes flowes aboue their wonted Bound,
And well nie breake my Hart where they art pent,
(For so great Force) a too too slender ground.
Then me supplant not from my wished rest,
But do abiure harsh Rigor from thy brest.

Affect me (not inflict on me) fresh woe
Thy Loue, my seruice merits, not thy Hate,
My loyall Hart to thee, didst thou but know,
Thou wouldst not thus reuenge, but rew my state:
Nor am I ouer bolde in what I craue,
Pitie (not Fauour) I desire to haue.

---

Tavvny and black, my Courtly Colours be,
Tawny, (because forsooke I am) I weare:
Black, (since mine Albas Loue is dead to me,
Yet liueth in another) I do beare.
Then welcome tavvny, since I am forsaken,
And come deare black, since my Loue's from me taken.

The princelike Eagle's neuer smit with Thunder,
Nor th' Oliue tree with Lightning blasted showes:
No marueile is to me, or wonder,
Though my Coy Dame, in Loue to me hard growes:
More deafe to me she is then sensles stock,
Her Hart's obdurate like the hardned rock.

But what meane I thus without Reason prate?
I am no more forsaken then I was:
My Loue's no more dead then it was of late;
For yet mine Alba nere for me did passe:
My Loue's not dead, she neuer me forsooke,
For Alba (nere yet) me in fauour tooke.

As many Fauours haue I as before:
For since I her (first) lou'd, she me disdainde,
And still doth so, still wounding me the more,
As in despayre I haue ere since remainde:
Yet I in black and tavvny Weedes will goe,
Because Forsooke, and dead I am with woe.

---

Loves labor lost, I once did see a Play,
Ycleped so, so called to my paine,
VVhich I to heare to my small Ioy did stay,
Giuing attendance on my froward Dame,
My misgiuing minde presaging to me Ill,
Yet was I drawne to see it gainst my Will.

This Play no Play, but Plague was vnto me,
For there I lost the Loue I liked most:
And what to others seemde a Iest to be,
I, that (in earnest) found vnto my cost.
To euery one (saue me) twas Comicall,
Whilst Tragick like to me it did befall.

Each Actor plaid in cunning wise his part,
But chiefly Those entrapt in Cupids snare:
Yet All was fained, twas not from the hart,
They seemde to grieue, but yet they felt no care:
Twas I that Griefe (indeed) did beare in brest,
The others did but make a show in Iest.

Yet neither faining theirs, nor my meere Truth,
Could make her once so much as for to smile:
Whilst she (despite of pitie milde and ruth)
Did sit as skorning of my Woes the while.
Thus did she sit to see Love lose his Love,
Like hardned Rock that force nor power can moue.

---

My lifes Catastrophe is at an end,
The Staffe whereon my sickly Loue did leane,
And which from falling (still) did him defend,
Is through mischance in sunder broken cleane.
Gone is my Mediatrix, my best Aduocate,
Who vsde for me to intercessionate.

Ah that my Loue cannot aright be waide
In Ballance iust, as merits due desart,
But must with Hate (for her Goodwill be paide)
Whereof Th' exchequer is mine Albas Hart:
The Saphire cut with his owne dust may be,
Mine owne pure Faith, in Loue confoundeth me.

O be not still vnto me (thus) seuere,
But rather Simplest milde in sicknes mine:
Honey with Gawle, Oyle mix with Vineger,
With frownes, blithe smiles, some sweete with sower of thine,
Giue me (to comfort mine) a Lenatiue,
But not t'encrease my Paine, sharpe Corasiue.

Canst thou endure that as a Ghost or Sprite,
I still should haunt thee with my irksome cryes?
Ah yet at last vnto thy selfe be like,
Some pitie shew from out those murthring eyes.
If th' owlt not grant my sute, nor louing be,
At least, yet in my Griefe, do flatter me.

---

Deare Parler, (louing lodging vnto me)
Mine only Walke and Garden of Delight,
Ah who hath tooke thy Beautie now from thee?
And reft from me what most did please my sight?
Ah if our wonted Sunne do not returne,
(As absent Her) so, me, (dead) shalt thou mourne.

My Hart that scarce his fainting breath drawes hard,
Demaundeth still his tribute of mine eyes,
Needes must I say a too too small reward,
Whilst he his Masters sorrowes oremuch tries.
(Poore Hart) thy Master wrongs thee I confesse,
Yet cannot he amend it neere the lesse.

I beare my part with thee in this sad mone,
In this sad Quire where dolefull Notes I sing:
For not to any but to me alone,
This Roomth as vncouth seemes and griefe doth bring,
Yet since she here did vse her walke to make,
These naked Walls Ile honor for her sake.

Ah Quondam Temple of my Goddesse faire,
Great reason haue I thee for to adore:
Thy Boords and Windowes I do holde as rare,
Since thou hast entertainde her heretofore,
Though Saint be gone, and nought be left but Shrine,
Yet for her Loue Ile hold thee as Diuine.

---

Shall these same Eyes, but now no Eyes at all,
Raine Teares still thus? and shall this my poore Hart
In vaine vpon a flintie Corse still call
For mercie, who no Mercie will impart?
Shal this my Tongue now hoarse, with (Pitie) crying,
Nere finde reliefe, but still a Voice denying?

Ah partiall Love! Ah, World vnmeet for men!
Ah maners fit for sauadge Beasts to loathe!
Ah wicked Fortune thus dost quit me then!
Because thou seest my selfe with Loue I cloathe,
Another shall despoyle me and vnbare?
Is this reward for faith vowde to the Faire?

Sweet meate sowre sawce deserues, I must confesse,
But pure Loue, should nere purchase Hate in right:
By Ones Disdaine, which is remedilesse,
I liue to like (vnlou'd) to worke my spight.
Wretched's that Wight, but faithfull Paterne rare,
That doth through Loue, Death to himselfe prepare.

Now by these brinish teares that outwardly
Distill from weeping eyes, like showers of raine:
And by those drops of blood vnseene of eye,
Which inwardly from hart streame downe amaine:
And by what els I haue; All which, is Thine,
Begin to loue, els end this life of mine.

---

Ah Alba faire, ah me vnfortunate!
Ah that my Birth's so low, my Thoughts so hie,
My due Desires so great so poore my state,
As not to ioy my Right, deseruinglie!
How might I please thee, thee for to possesse?
With how great will would I my selfe addresse?

Will Labours patient of Extremities,
Obtaine the fauour of thy long sought Loue?
I will attempt, if so thou but deuise,
Monsters to tame, and Mountaines to remoue:
Alcides like, all things I will subdue,
So I may finde thee gracious when I sue.

Dost thou the passions of deep Loue desire?
The sad despayring moode of perplext minde,
The nere exprest through hidden torments) Fire
Of racked Thoughts? dost couet this to finde?
Mark my deep sighs, my hollow eyes, salt teares,
My broken sleepes, my heauy countnance beares.

Wouldst thou I to thy Beautie vowde should bee?
And in thy seruice spend my long lifes time?
Remember then my solitarie life for thee,
This seuen whole yeares (a Prentiship of mine)
Tis true (thou knowst) where ere thou (now) remaine,
Then be appeasde, and pleasde to ease my paine.

---

Say then faire Alba, faire, yet full of spight,
What haue I done that thou shouldst me vndoe?
Holding thee Deare, why setst by me so light?
Why silent art thou when to thee I sue?
The more Submissiue I, and Humble am,
Why gainst me dost thy selfe still sdainfull frame?

Whom haue I but mine owne Thoughts entertainde,
And thy rare Vertues and what companie
But Contemplation, hath with me remainde?
And whom haue I still wondred at but thee?
Whom haue I not contemnd for thee, since time
I first beheld that matchles shape of thine?

Haue I not crept to some, not trod with feete
On them, cause thou to fauour them I saw?
Haue not all Iniuries to me bin sweete?
If thou didst will me beare them, twas a Law.
Haue I not spent my golden yeares with hope?
Seeking nought but thy Loue (my Wishes scope.)

Yet in the midst of these distempered Thoughts,
Thou art not only Ielous of my Truth,
But makst account of me, farre worse then Noughts,
Nor dost by Message yeeld me any Ruth:
My Loue vnspotted, cannot be accepted,
My Truth (O strange) vnspeakable's, reiected.

---

Like to this Sea, Love hath me fashiond right,
He full of water, I replete with woe:
He boyles and bubleth vp in open sight,
I fret and rage where ere I (wandring) goe:
He flowes, and boue his banks the surges rise,
(From me) salt teares gush forth in streaming wise.

He water wants not, nor my Griefes decrease;
Thousands of quicksands hath he all about,
I, thousand cares that on my Hart do sease:
His waues are cut in twaine, my Hart, throughout.
The whistling reedes about his banks do sound,
Sorrow in me is of my song the ground.

Both windes and raine vpon him (daily) fall,
I still, distill salt showres and sighs amaine:
By tempests, oft his Channels broke are all,
My Bowels cleft be with continuall paine:
His bottome none can well perceiue or see,
My Torments without depth sauns sounding bee.

Only we differ thus, he still doth bide
Here, swallowing them that passe alongst this place,
I vade away, and (Cruell Homicide)
Murther I do my selfe in pitious case.
Who then can rid me (Not amie of Woe)
From these hell plagues? None, but my Cruell Foe.

---

Alba I haue not liued ouer long,
Yet haue I hollow eyes, and haires halfe gray:
My yeares not many, for I am but yong,
Though wrinckled be my cheekes and lims decay.
But is this Destnie, or ist pure Deceit?
That hath on me (thus) wrought this cunning feat?

Ift be the first, why then none could preuent
My wretched Stars to scape this miserie?
Ift be the latter that such ill me ment,
I needes must think it was mine Enemie:
It was (indeed), thy selfe it was (Faire Witch)
That with thy beautie wrought me to be sich.

Thou art too Faire (I see) for to be true,
And too too False for one that is so Faire:
Yet for my wrongs thou seemest not to rue,
Nor for my Crosses ought at All dost care:
And yet my Loue's more feruent still towards thee,
My sparks growne flames, my cinders bonfires bee.

Only I grieue my daies are at an end,
Fore I can of thee any fauour gaine:
And which is worse, I likely am to spend
All the Remainder, yet no Grace obtaine.
Vnhappie Pilgrim I, borne still to euill,
To shrine her for a Saint, who is a Deuill.

---

When Beautie sickneth, then Desire doth die,
Fauor doth vade most flouring in his prime,
Then Love doth ebbe, when flowes Aduersitie,
But Friendship bides out euery stormie Time.
Ah Alba I not doted haue on thee,
But lou'd thee deare, as deere, as deere might bee.

Affection, (alwaies) either grounded is
On Vertue; (and Vertue nere peeuish showes)
Or else on Beautie; (counted chiefest blisse)
And Beautie praisde, (through Loue) more fairer growes:
I neuer Peruerse was, nor Sullen yet,
But praisde thy Beautie to mine vtmost wit.

To thee, I, both a Friend and Louer am,
Yet euery Louer is no Constant Friend,
But who a Friend in Nature is and Name,
As Louer true begins, and true doth end:
Thy truest Friend am I, more then another,
And vnto thee the faithfulst loyalst Louer.

Vertue (in me) Affection shall subdue,
Wisedome, all Lust, my Friendship sweetest Beautie,
Ile not be fickle, false, but constant, true,
Seruing thee still, with all respect of Dutie;
And when I shall be buried, dead and gone,
My Ghost shall (as thy Slaue) thee tend vpon.

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Ah Speake then, shall these Torments I endure,
Of Bloody Thoughts, and nere expressed paine
Neuer remorse of stubborne thee procure?
And shall they breede (still) my eternall bane?
Yet grant me, things impossible to wish,
To feede Conceite, since that no hurt it is.

Then shalt thou see (through this I holde so deare)
Ile longe my life prolong, and Spirits spend,
And to my selfe that Creature none may heare,
Ile softlie call it Loue, till life shall end.
And if what I, thus whisper Any vrge,
Ile name it Honor, so my selfe to purge.

May I but this sweete Contemplation holde,
I then shall liue of All men most content,
Taking more pleasure in my Thoughts though olde,
Then ere I did in youthly Actions spent.
Grant me this Grace, to thee tis matter small)
And all my Crosses Ile sweete blessing call.

Ah that tho'wldst daigne, this might be christned Loue,
That Fauour (as reward for it might be,
But I doe feare, I shall thee too much moue,
This ouer boldenes (Dearest) pardon me.
And let me hope one day some gentle power,
May turne to Sweete, this my most bitter Sower.

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Time was and is, and euer shall be still,
That I to honor thee will neuer spare,
But for to call it Loue or Pure Goodwill,
I neuer durst, although I seemde to dare,
Then luster me, to follow this my Vaine,
Flattering my selfe, although I nothing gaine.

None pleased hath mine eyes, but Alba bright,
None but sweete Alba doth possesse my Hart,
Mine cares in Alba, onely take delight,
And this my Soule, from Alba nere shall part.
To follow thee, all Fortunes Ile forsake,
And vnto thee alone, my selfe betake.

The Gods haue set such difference twixt our slate,
That all must be, pure Dewtie, Reuerence;
Nothing I must terme Love (such is my Fate,)
Except thou daine, therewith for to dispence.
And since I know that so thou dost command,
I condescend will to it out of hand.

Yet my Vnspotted Thoughts my pining Corse,
My Discontented Life, let them obtaine
One blessed Fauour through thy kinde remorse,
Though they not merit least part of the same.
So I with Ioy shall end my wearie daies,
And dying, sound abroad thy nere dying Praise.

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The Conclusion of the last Part.

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CERTAINE DIVINE POEMS, WRITTEN BY THE foresaid Author R.T. Gentleman.

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Deo, Optimo, Maximo.

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