The Golden Aphroditis A pleasant discourse, penned by John Grange ... Whereunto be annexed by the same Authour asvvell certayne Metres upon sundry poyntes, as also divers Pamphlets in prose, which he entituleth His Garden: pleasant to the eare, and delightful to the Reader, if he abuse not the scente of the floures |
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A Song whiche the Gentlewoman made, before she slevve hir selfe.
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 | The Golden Aphroditis |  |
A Song whiche the Gentlewoman made, before she slevve hir selfe.
O
Cupide, why arte thou to me vnkynde?
Unequall arte thou in thy raging moode,
Why didst thou seeke with loue to make me blynde?
By loue to die, it will doe thee no good,
Unlesse perchaunce you ioy to see my woe,
I gaue no cause to finde you such a foe.
Unequall arte thou in thy raging moode,
Why didst thou seeke with loue to make me blynde?
By loue to die, it will doe thee no good,
Unlesse perchaunce you ioy to see my woe,
I gaue no cause to finde you such a foe.
Did I offend thy mother any time?
Whereby she sought on me to wrecke hir spight,
Did I commit at any time a crime,
Whiche moued you to put my ioyes to flight?
If so I haue, then didst thou serue me well,
If not, me thinkes thy nature is to fell.
Whereby she sought on me to wrecke hir spight,
Did I commit at any time a crime,
Whiche moued you to put my ioyes to flight?
If so I haue, then didst thou serue me well,
If not, me thinkes thy nature is to fell.
Ioue knoweth all, but I doe feele the smarte,
I haue the wounde whiche breedes my endlesse woe,
Alas, alas, what meanes that dyrefull darte?
It makes me loue whome neither may forgoe.
Alas to late I may repent the time,
Of my delight, when Ver was in hir pryme.
I haue the wounde whiche breedes my endlesse woe,
Alas, alas, what meanes that dyrefull darte?
It makes me loue whome neither may forgoe.
Alas to late I may repent the time,
Of my delight, when Ver was in hir pryme.
For my delight hath giuen this deadly wounde,
Whiche by no meanes agayne may cured be,
Alas, alas, loue doth me nowe confounde,
By parant proofe each man the same may see.
And none aliue dothe rest to cure the same,
Thee Cupid now full iustly may I blame.
Whiche by no meanes agayne may cured be,
Alas, alas, loue doth me nowe confounde,
By parant proofe each man the same may see.
And none aliue dothe rest to cure the same,
Thee Cupid now full iustly may I blame.
And Lady Ver, thou arte my mortall foe,
For thy delights did force my feete to range,
Thou arte the cause of all this endlesse woe,
Though Fortune coy she seemed somewhat strange.
Thus all alike did gyue this mortall wounde,
And all alike hath sought me to confounde.
Thou arte the cause of all this endlesse woe,
Though Fortune coy she seemed somewhat strange.
Thus all alike did gyue this mortall wounde,
And all alike hath sought me to confounde.
If Lethe lake shoulde yeelde vnto my lore,
Yet would it want in me his former force.
It could not be a salue for suche a sore,
For Cresses iuyce it would his wonte deuorce.
Wherefore in vayne I crie and looke for ayde,
For hope it selfe at neede hath me denayde.
Yet would it want in me his former force.
It could not be a salue for suche a sore,
For Cresses iuyce it would his wonte deuorce.
Wherefore in vayne I crie and looke for ayde,
For hope it selfe at neede hath me denayde.
Come Ladies now, put on your mourning weedes,
Mourne and lament the cause of my distresse,
Through want of will my harte it dayly bleedes.
For hope denies to yeelde me ought redresse.
Mourne and lament each day with dolefull tunes,
For I am she whome lingring loue consumes.
Mourne and lament the cause of my distresse,
Through want of will my harte it dayly bleedes.
For hope denies to yeelde me ought redresse.
Mourne and lament each day with dolefull tunes,
For I am she whome lingring loue consumes.
What woman will in man repose hir trust,
And findeth them so oft to be vniust?
Worse than a beast is he that plights his troth,
And then for to performe the same is loth:
But worse is he that giues his faith to one,
When long before to others it was gone.
And findeth them so oft to be vniust?
Worse than a beast is he that plights his troth,
And then for to performe the same is loth:
But worse is he that giues his faith to one,
When long before to others it was gone.
Falser art thou to me than Demophon,
Theseus, Phaon, Aeneas, Iason:
Falser to me, than euer any wight,
Who waste my ioy, and eke my whole delight:
And of my death thy falshoode is in blame,
Whose bloud shall pay the ransome of the same.
Theseus, Phaon, Aeneas, Iason:
Falser to me, than euer any wight,
Who waste my ioy, and eke my whole delight:
And of my death thy falshoode is in blame,
Whose bloud shall pay the ransome of the same.
Come rue therefore with me ye wretched wightes,
With dolefull tunes approche yee neare at hande,
Weepe now and wayle forbidding all delightes,
And pleasures eke at elbow yours to stande.
For loue it seekes to make me now a tome,
And loue it will me bryng vnto my dome.
With dolefull tunes approche yee neare at hande,
Weepe now and wayle forbidding all delightes,
And pleasures eke at elbow yours to stande.
For loue it seekes to make me now a tome,
And loue it will me bryng vnto my dome.
FINIS.
| The Golden Aphroditis | |