H. His Deuises for his owne exercise, and his Friends pleasure [by Thomas Howell] |
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Such Saintes, such seruice.
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 | H. His Deuises |  |
Such Saintes, such seruice.
Thy countnance changde, though clokt in couert sort,Not all things well, long since did make report.
Though thou vnkinde, and twise vnkinde againe
To me thy friend, wouldst not imparte thy paine.
See yet at last, how tyme the truth hath tolde,
What thou wouldst not, loe time doth here vnfolde.
No doubtfull drift whereon demurre dependes.
So close is kept, that time not tries and endes.
And art thou changde? doth fansie so perswade?
To heape thy harme, doe secrete flames inuade?
Wilt thou from me so hide thy cause of pine?
Hast thou forgot, I rest still wholy thine?
Where is become thy manly minde, which late
Could so dehort thy friend, in fraile estate?
May one so well approou'd in Pallas feelde,
By view of symple peere, seeme thus to yeelde.
Shall Bussard blinde, thy constant dealing daunt?
Arte thou so fonde, with carren Kyte to haunt?
Or wilt thou stoupe, and bend thy selfe to serue,
A thanklesse Trull, whose deeds right naught deserue?
Whose peeuishe pride, descries the Pecocks grace,
Though she God wot, be farre more vile and base.
Naught else but wante of wyt, makes pride presume,
The feete well viewd, downe fals the Pecocks plume.
Whose owne conceyte, so dimmes her dazeled sight,
That deeme she doth for day, the duskishe night.
To base she is for thee to lure and call,
Though she by lofty lookes would conquer all.
Thy foode to fine her fylthy gorge to fill,
Of daintie pray to iudge, she hath no skill.
By course of kinde, she doth for carren craue,
Be rulde by me, her diet let her haue.
My Keeper kepe henceforth some finer fowle.
For looke as vessel aye, yeelds certaine taste
Of licoure, such as fyrst therein was plaste.
So dunghill byrdes, on dunghill still we finde,
To shewe the branch whence fyrst they came by kinde.
Cast of therfore thy care and changed cheare,
Call home thy hart, let woonted plight appeare.
Hoyse vp thy sayles, and launch from wrackful shore,
Who runnes on rockes, oft brused is full sore.
| H. His Deuises | |