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 vnfortunate louer is persuaded his misshap to grow by destinie.
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 | The Rocke of Regard |  |
The vnfortunate louer is persuaded his misshap to grow by destinie.
Yet
was not Hellens face, ne Parris faire,
Untimely which did weaue the Troyans woe,
For former faultes, the Gods agreede in ire,
With future panges, their vengeance downe to throwe,
And making choyse, as instrument withall,
That Parris loue, should king Priames thrall.
Untimely which did weaue the Troyans woe,
For former faultes, the Gods agreede in ire,
With future panges, their vengeance downe to throwe,
And making choyse, as instrument withall,
That Parris loue, should king Priames thrall.
Such heaped harmes, within the Heauens beene,
For one mans case, to cause anothers care,
Unfriendly so, the fates mens happes do spin,
In partiall wise, to yeelde eche wight his share,
Then loue, why should I cursse, or skorne lawe,
Or blame the dame one whom I stande in awe.
For one mans case, to cause anothers care,
Unfriendly so, the fates mens happes do spin,
In partiall wise, to yeelde eche wight his share,
Then loue, why should I cursse, or skorne lawe,
Or blame the dame one whom I stande in awe.
Her vertues rare, her pearelesse beautie bright,
Her Pallas witt, I ioynde with Sabas skill,
My restlesse eyes, which couets to her sight,
Are not the fates, which forceth mee this ill,
For hier sprites, deuised long agoe,
My youthfull yeares, should passe in pyning woe.
Her Pallas witt, I ioynde with Sabas skill,
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Are not the fates, which forceth mee this ill,
For hier sprites, deuised long agoe,
My youthfull yeares, should passe in pyning woe.
| The Rocke of Regard | |