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 louer being wounded at the Bathe, sues vnto his Lady for pittie.
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 | The Rocke of Regard |  |
96
The louer being wounded at the Bathe, sues vnto his Lady for pittie.
I Bathing late, in Bathes of souereigne ease,Not in those bathes where beauties blisse doth flowe
But euen at Bathe, which many a guest doth please,
But loe mishap, those waues hath wrought my woe.
There loue I sawe, her seemely selfs to laue,
Whose sightly shape, so sore my heart did heate,
That soone I shund, those streames my selfe to saue,
But scorching sighes, so set mee in a sweate,
That loe I pine, to please my peeuish will,
And yet I freese, with frostes of chilling feare,
Thus in extremes, I liue and languish still,
Without releefe, my restlesse woes to weare.
I blame the bathe, as bruer of my bale,
To giue mee dregges, when others drinke delight
Thus to the streames, I tell a senselesse tale,
Time to beguile, when absence spittes her spite.
But now perforce, I sue to thee (sweete wench,)
With teares I pleade, for pittie and for ruth,
But if thou scornst, my scorched heart to quench,
Doe but commaunde, and death shall trie my truth,
This blemish then, by thee, the bathe shall gett,
Which many one, to health hath helpt of yore,
A meane to mashe men, in dame beauties nett,
And can not giue, a salue to cure their sore,
Which if you shame, then say no more but soe,
I yeeld to loue, those woordes will ease my woe.
| The Rocke of Regard | |