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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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The infortunate louer determineth rather desperately to end his sorrowes, then to proroge them with bootelesse hope.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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The infortunate louer determineth rather desperately to end his sorrowes, then to proroge them with bootelesse hope.

The trayterous mate, by law adiudg'd to dye,
If feare of death, should worke this foule effect,
In hope Saunce hap, his secrete to escrye,
Or slaunder forge to peach the vnsuspect,
Proroging thus, his life by dallying death,
Besides his gilt, with shame shuld stop his breath.
In desperate frayes, where raunsome is denyde,
Base were the minde, in hope of grace to yeald,
Whose courage else, might daūt his enimies pride,
And so by force, with fame, to win the field,
For where our wrong, doth worke our ouerthrow,
In vaine we hope, to weare away our woe.

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And why shuld I, with hope persuade my thought,
To bath in blisse, past bondes of my desart,
For my base hap, my loue to high is sought,
Whom fauour none, but frownings ouerthwart,
Alas can reape, at my sweete maistresse hands:
I loue, she hates, and thus my fortune stands.
With withered woe, my life I weare away,
Where often I heare, thundring in my thought,
Through loue of her, my friendes and foes to say,
Upon my selfe, I wilfull murther wrought:
Then sith my death, this strange report shal shape,
In vaine for grace, till later gaspe I gape,
Nay, wretche diuorce, delayes from wished death,
Cut through ye thred, which care cōsumes to slowe,
Thy mounting mind, despiseth seruile breath,
And canst thou yeald, to fortunes ouerthrowe?
Thy dome is death, by Ladies scorne decreed,
Needs most thou dye, then best to dye with speede.
Some friend wil write, on my vntimely tumbe,
With faithfull zeale, I so my Goddesse seru'd,
My life, my loue, my liuing all and some,
I reaft, and left, before my fancie sweru'd,
And when my suit, her mou'd to angry moode,
To worke amends, I sacrifisde my bloud.