 | The Anatomie of Hvmors |  |
37
[If haples, I had harbord in my heart]
If
haples, I had harbord in my heart
The festred sting of euer-tortring greefe,
Reuthles disdaine had neuer scornd my smart,
Nor I haue baisde my selfe to beg releefe:
But O, my Mistres, hath a womans minde,
Who loues her best, there proues she most vnkinde.
The festred sting of euer-tortring greefe,
Reuthles disdaine had neuer scornd my smart,
Nor I haue baisde my selfe to beg releefe:
But O, my Mistres, hath a womans minde,
Who loues her best, there proues she most vnkinde.
Doe what she can, O cruell faithles faire,
Be still ingrate, and neuer grant me grace:
For why? the proud triumph of my Despare
Hath lade my hopes before her slaughtring face:
There must they sterue, murthred with mis-regarde,
My Loue is loath'd, and I haue no rewarde.
Be still ingrate, and neuer grant me grace:
For why? the proud triumph of my Despare
Hath lade my hopes before her slaughtring face:
There must they sterue, murthred with mis-regarde,
My Loue is loath'd, and I haue no rewarde.
Then fare-well Loue, a woman is a toy,
Which being got, some other gets againe:
Curst be that man, whose jelousie is joy,
And yeelds him seruile to a Sluaish paine:
Who courts a woman, must not thinke it strange,
That want of wit, still makes her minde to change.
Which being got, some other gets againe:
Curst be that man, whose jelousie is joy,
And yeelds him seruile to a Sluaish paine:
Who courts a woman, must not thinke it strange,
That want of wit, still makes her minde to change.
O man whom GOD his cheefest wonder made,
And Treasure ritch of his al-seeing Eye,
The winter blast, thy floorish fare shall fade:
Swift-posting-time, still tels thee you must dye:
In fansies lap spend not thy dayes for shame,
Go spend thy dayes where honour liues with fame.
And Treasure ritch of his al-seeing Eye,
The winter blast, thy floorish fare shall fade:
Swift-posting-time, still tels thee you must dye:
[38]
Go spend thy dayes where honour liues with fame.
Then get you gone, sweet Syrins of deceat,
Full well I knowe your strange inchanting skill:
I scorne that Coward of a base conceat,
That Pandor-like waits on a womans will:
O let him dye deceaud, that will not doubt you,
And happiest he, who best can liue without you.
Full well I knowe your strange inchanting skill:
I scorne that Coward of a base conceat,
That Pandor-like waits on a womans will:
O let him dye deceaud, that will not doubt you,
And happiest he, who best can liue without you.
| The Anatomie of Hvmors | |