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Eglogs, Epytaphes, and Sonettes

Newly written by Barnabe Googe
Googe, Barnabe (1540-1594)

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[section]
  
Alexander Neuyll.
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[subsection]
  
[dedication]
  
The Preface of L. Blundeston.
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[Eglogs.]
 1. 
Egloga prima
 2. 
Egloga secunda.
 3. 
Egloga tertia.
 4. 
Egloga quarta.
 5. 
Egloga quinta.
 6. 
Egloga sexta.
 7. 
Egloga septima.
 8. 
Egloga octaua.
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Epytaphes.
  
An Epytaphe of the Lorde Sheffeldes death.
  
An Epytaphe of M. Shelley slayne at Musselbroughe.
  
An Epytaphe of Maister Thomas Phayre.
  
An Epytaphe of the Death of Nicolas Grimaold.
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Sonettes.
  
To Mayster Alexander Nowell.
  
To Doctor Bale.
  
To M. Edwarde Cobham.
  
Of Edwardes of the Chappell.
  
To L. Blundeston.
  
The Aunswere of L. Blundeston to the same.
  
To Alexander Neuell.
  
Alexander Neuells Answere to the same.
  
To M. Henrye Cobham of the most blessed state of Lyfe.
  
To Alexander Neuell of the blessed Sate of him that feeles not the force of Cupids flames.
  
Alexander Neuells Awnswere to the same.
  
To Maystresse A.
  
To George Holmeden of a ronnynge Heade.
  
To the Translation of Pallingen.
  
The Harte absent.
  
To Alexander Neuell.
  
The Aunswere of A. Neuell to the same.
  
To Maystresse D.
  
Out of an olde Poet.
  
[Ons musynge as I sat]
  
[When I do heare thy name]
  
[Vnhappye tonge]
  
Oculi augent dolorem.
  
[Accuse not God, yf fancie fond]
  
[Two Lynes shall tell the Gryefs]
  
Of the vnfortunate choyse of his Ualentyne.
  
The vncertayntie of Lyfe.
  
A Refusall.
  
Of Maistres. D S.
  
Of Money.
  
Goyng towardes Spayne.
  
At Bonyuall in Fraunce.
  
Commynge home warde out of Spayne.
  
To L. Blundeston of Ingratitude.
  
The Aunswere of L. Blundeston to the same.
  
To the Tune of Appelles.
  
Cupido Conquered.

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[When I do heare thy name]

When I do heare thy name,
alas my hart doth ryse:
And seekes fourthwith to se the salue
that most contētes myne eys.
But when I se thy Face,
that hath procured my payne,
Then boyles my blud in euery part,
and beates in euery vayne?
Thy voice when I do heare,
then collour comes and goes,
Some tyme as pale as Earth I looke,
some tyme as red as Rose.
If thy sweete Face do smyle,
then who so well as I?
If thou but cast a scornefull looke,
then out alas I dye.
But styll I lyue in payne,
my fortune wylleth so,
That I shuld burne & thou yet know,
no whytt of all my wo.
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