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H. His Deuises

for his owne exercise, and his Friends pleasure [by Thomas Howell]
 
 

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They performe not best, that promise most.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 



They performe not best, that promise most.

What holde in hope, or trust to fayre allure,
Shee that my sweetest yeares beguylde can tell:
By whome I learne there is no way so sure,
Ne speedier meane to guyde a man to hell.
Loe, he that liste such fayned hope to prooue,
Shall subiect liue, and nere raigne ouer loue.
The pleasure of her piercing eyes me thought,
Should be the lightes that leade to happinesse:
Alas I was to bolde, but she more nought,
To false suche fayth, and meaning nothing lesse,
What heauen is hid in loue, who seekes to see,
Must sue and serue a better Saint than shee.
Though tyme hath stayed the rage of my desyre,
Yet doth her sight renewe my festred wounde:
I cursse the arte that causde me to aspire,
In hope of truthe, where no trust could be founde.
But tyll my soule shall breake this carefull gayle,
Loue may not maystred be, nor I preuayle.