The Rocke of Regard diuided into foure parts. The first, the Castle of delight: Wherein is reported, the wretched end of wanton and dissolute liuing. The second, the Garden of Vnthriftinesse: Wherein are many sweete flowers, (or rather fancies) of honest loue. The thirde, the Arbour of Vertue: Wherein slaunder is highly punished, and vertuous Ladies and Gentlewomen, worthily commended. The fourth, the Ortchard of Repentance: Wherein are discoursed, the miseries that followe dicing, the mischiefes of quareling, the fall of prodigalitie: and the souden ouerthrowe of foure notable cousners, with diuers other morall, natural, & tragical discourses: documents and admonitions being all the inuention, collection and translation of George Whetstons |
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A Sonet, wherin is showne the straunge effectes of loue.
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 | The Rocke of Regard |  |
A Sonet, wherin is showne the straunge effectes of loue.
In
care I ioy, my mirth is mou'd by mone,
With flouds of want, I weare to ebbe my wo,
Appayd I rest, in restlesse griefe to grone,
By fainting hope, my friendly hap doth growe,
In waues of bale, I bathe in wished blisse,
My wealth in woe, in paine my pleasure is.
With flouds of want, I weare to ebbe my wo,
Appayd I rest, in restlesse griefe to grone,
By fainting hope, my friendly hap doth growe,
In waues of bale, I bathe in wished blisse,
My wealth in woe, in paine my pleasure is.
But how these hang, if so she search my harme,
These sewe suffice, the same to shew my (sweete)
To rayse her ioy, my selfe I wholy arme,
To freese, or fry, as she shal deeme it meete,
I bound, am free, and free, I yeald her slaue,
That's my delight, that she desires to haue.
These sewe suffice, the same to shew my (sweete)
To rayse her ioy, my selfe I wholy arme,
To freese, or fry, as she shal deeme it meete,
I bound, am free, and free, I yeald her slaue,
That's my delight, that she desires to haue.
And sith my sport, doth make my souereigns ioy,
And mirth she finds, to thwart my faith wt frūps,
I sad, am glad, my noy, may force her ioy.
My sowre, her sweete, my dole may cleare her dumpes,
Yea life I wish, this were to do her good,
Each day to wasts, a drop of guitlesse blood.
And mirth she finds, to thwart my faith wt frūps,
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My sowre, her sweete, my dole may cleare her dumpes,
Yea life I wish, this were to do her good,
Each day to wasts, a drop of guitlesse blood.
| The Rocke of Regard | |