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Willobie His Avisa

Or The true Picture of a modest Maid, and of a chast and constant wife. In Hexamiter verse. The like argument wherof, was neuer heretofore published [by Henry Willoby]
  

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CANT. XI.

AVISA.
Hand off my Lord, this will not serue,
Your wisdome wanders much awrie,
From reasons rule thus farre to swarue,
I'le neuer yeeld, I'le rather die,
Except you leaue, and so depart,
This knife shall sticke within your hart.
Is this the loue, your franticke fit
Did so pretend in glosing shew?
Are these your waies, is this your wit,
To tice and force poore maidens so?
You striue in vaine, by raging lust,
To gaine consent, or make me trust.
For who can trust your flattering stile,
Your painted words, your braue pretence,
When you will striue, by trayned will
To force consent to lewd offence,
Then thus to yeeld by chaunted charmes,
I'le rather die within your armes.
Your golden Angels I repell,
Your lawlesse lust I here defie
These Angels are the posts of hell,
That often lead poore soules awrie,
Shame on them all, your eyes shall see,
These Angels haue no power of me.


Your gownes of silke, your golden chaines,
Your men, your maides, your hundreth pounds,
Are nothing else but diuelish traines,
That fill fond eares with tickling sounds,
A bladder full of traiterous wind,
And fardest off from filthy mind.
Well, sith your meaning now is plaine,
And lust would giue no longer leaue,
To faithlesse hart, to lie and faine,
Which might perchance in time deceiue,
By Iesus Christ I doe protest,
I'le neuer graunt that you request.