The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton

For the First Time Collected and Edited: With Memorial-Introduction, Notes and Illustrations, Glossarial Index, Facsimilies, &c. By the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart. In Two Volumes

Breton, Nicholas (1545?-1626?)

A Floorish vpon Fancie.

THE PILGRIMAGE TO PARADISE,

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The Arbor of Amorous Deuices.

PASQVILS Mad-cappe,

PASQVILS FOOLES-CAP

PASQVILS Passe, and passeth not

MELANCHOLIKE HUMOURS,

A Testament vpon the Passion.

A Fantasticke Solemne Humour.

A Solemne Farewell to the World.

A Displeasure against Loue.

A Farewell to Conceipt.

An Unhappy, Solemne, Jeasting Curse.

A Quarrell with Loue.

A Wish in vaine.

A Conceipt vpon an Eagle, and a Phœnix.

A Conceited Fancy.

A Smile Misconstrued.

An Epitaph vpon Poet Spencer.

A Solemne PASSION OF THE SOVLES Love

A Diuine Poeme, diuided into two Partes:

AN EXCELLENT POEME, Vpon the Longing of a Blessed Heart:

The Soules Harmony.

THE MOTHERS blessing.

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHEARD,

THE Soules immortall crowne consisting of seauen glorious graces.

A TRVE DESCRIPTION of vnthankfulnesse.

THE HONOVR OF VALOVR.

An Invective Against Treason

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Daffodils and Primroses.

AMORIS LACHRIMÆ

GLEANINGS.

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MELANCHOLIKE HUMOURS,

In Verses of Diverse Natures, Set downe by NICH: BRETON, Gent.

To the Lover of good studies, and Fauourer of good actions, MASTER THOMAS BLUNT, Heavens blessing, and earths happinesse.

In Authorem.

Thov , that wouldst finde the habit of true passion,
And see a minde attir'd in perfect straines;
No twearing moodes, as gallants doe a fashion,
In these pide times, only to shewe their braines,

Looke here on Bretons Worke, the master print:
Where, such perfections to the life doe rise;
If they seeme wry, to such as looke asquint,
The fault's not in the object, but their eyes.

For, as one comming with a laterall viewe
Vnto a cunning piece wrought perspectiue,
Wants facultie to make a censure true;
So with this Authors readers will it thriue:

Which, being eyed directly, I diuine
His proofe their praise, will meet, as in this line.

Ben: Iohnson.

See and Say Nothing.

Oh my thoughts, keepe in your words,
Least their passage do repent yee;
Knowing, Fortune still affordes
Nothing, but may discontent yee.

If your saint be like the sunne,
Sit not yee in Phœbus chaire,
Least, when once the horses runne,
Yee be Dedalus his heire.

If your labours well deserue,
Let your silence onely grace them;
And in patience hope preserue,
That no fortune can deface them.

If your friend doe growe vnkinde,
Grieue, but doe not seeme to showe it:
For a patient heart shall finde
Comfort, when the soule shall know it.

If your trust be all betrai'd,
Trie, but trust no more at all:
But in soule be not dismai'd;
Whatsoeuer doe befall.

In your selues your selues enclose,
Keepe your secrecies vnseene;
Least when ye your selues disclose,
Yee had better neuer beene.

And what euer be your state,
Doe not languish ouerlong;
Least you finde it, all too late,
Sorrow be a deadly song.

And be comforted in this,
If your passions be concealed,
Crosse or comfort, bale or blisse,
'Tis the best, is not reuealed.

So, my deerest thoughts, adieu,
Hark whereto my soule doth call yee:
Be but secret, wise, and true,
Feare no euill can befall yee.

What is Hell?

What is the place that some do paint for Hell?
A lake of horrour for the life of man:
Is it not then the death wherein I dwell,
That knowes no joy, since first my life began?

What are the diuils? Spirits of tormenting;
What else are they, that vexe me in each vaine?
With wretched thoughts my wofull spirit tempting,
Or else perplex mee in an after-paine.

What is the fire? but, an effect of sinne,
That keepes my heart in an vnkindly heat.
How long shall I this life continue in?
Till true repentance mercy doe entreate,

And Patience cry, euen at the latest breath,
Saue mee, sweet Lord yet frō the secōd death.

Mal Content.

If I desir'd vnto the world to liue,
Or sought in soule to serue the golden God:
If I did homage to an idole giue,
Or, with the wicked wisht to haue abode,

Then, well might Justice lay her sword vpon mee,
In due correction of my crooked hart;
But shall I liue, in soule thus woe begon mee,
That seeke in faith to serue the better part?

Ah, wretched Soule, why dost thou murmur so?
It is thy crosse, and thou art borne to beare it:
Through hellish griefs thy hart to heavē must go,
For Patience crowne, if thou wilt liue to wear it.

Then rest with this, (since Faith is Virtues friend,)
Death ends distresse, Heauen makes a happy end.

A Dolefull Passion.

Oh, tyred heart too full of sorrowes,
In night-like daies, despairing morrowes;
How canst thou thinke, so deepely greeued,
To hope to liue to be relieued?

Good Fortune hath all grace forsworne thee,
And cruell Care hath too much torne thee:
Vnfaithfull friends do all deceiue thee;
Acquaintance all vnkindly leaue thee.

Beauty, out of her booke doth blot thee,
And Loue hath vtterly forgot thee:
Patience doth but to passion moue thee,
While only Honour liues to loue thee.

Thine enemies all ill deuise thee,
Thy friends but little good aduise thee;
And they who most doe duety owe thee,
Doe seeme as though they doe not knowe thee.

Thus Pittie weepes to looke vpon thee,
To see how thou art woe begon thee;
And while these passions seeke to spill thee,
Death but attends the houre to kill thee.

And since no thoughte is comming to thee,
That any way may comfort doe thee;
Dispose thy thoughtes as best may please thee,
That Heauen, of all thy Hell, may ease thee.

A Testament vpon the Passion.

To Care, that crucifies my heart,
My sighes and sobbes I doe bequeath;
And to my Sorrowes deepest smart,
The latest gaspe that I doe breath.

To Fortune, I bequeath my folly,
To giue to such as seeke her grace:
To faithlesse friends, that fortune wholly,
That brought mee in this heavie case.

To Beauty, I bequeath mine age;
To Love, the hate of wit and sense;
To Patience, but the cure of rage;
To Honour, Virtues patience.

Mine enemies I do forgiue;
And to my friends I giue my loue;
And wish vngrateful hearts may liue
But like ingratitude to proue.

To Pitty, I bequeath my teares,
To fill her eyes when they be dry;
To Faith, the fearelesse thoughts of feares,
To giue to life, to let me die.

My care I doe bequeath to Death,
To cut the threades that thoughts do spinne;
And at my latest gasp of breath,
To Heauen my soule, to Hell my sinne.

A Fantasticke Solemne Humour.

Sovnd, good Reason, sound my sorrowes,
Equall them with any liuing;
Finde the worst of all her giuing,
When she most her mischiefe borrowes.

Leaue not patience all perplexed,
Where no passions are appeased;
But her torments, never eased,
Keepe her spirit too much vexed.

Tell, oh tell the truest story
That hath long time bene described;
Whereto justly is ascribed
Sorrowes pride, and Death his glory.

Loue bred in Discretions blindnesse,
Shadowes, for the sunne affecting
Nothing, but nothing effecting,
Shewes the crosse of Natures kindnesse.

Wit, bewitcht with wanton Beauty,
Lost the raines of Reasons bridle;
And, in Folly all too idle,
Brake the bands of Reasons duty.

Time misspent in Follies trifles,
(With repentance sorrow feeding,)
In the rules of Reasons reeding,
Findes them nothing else but nifles.

Care, yet seeking to recouer
Indiscretions heavie losses,
Found, in casting vp my crosses,
Sorrow only left the louer.

A Briefe of Sorrowe.

Mvse of sadnesse neere Deaths fashion,
Too neere madnesse, write my passion;
Paines possesse mee, Sorrowes spill mee,
Cares distresse mee, all would kill mee;
Hopes haue faild mee, Fortune foild mee,
Feares haue quaild mee, all haue spoild mee:
Woes haue worne mee, sighes haue soakt mee;
Thoughts haue torne mee, all haue broke mee.
Beauty strooke me, Loue hath catcht mee,
Death hath tooke mee, all dispatcht mee.

A Solemne Fancy.

Sorrow in my heart breedeth
A cocatrices neast,
Where euery young bird feedeth
Vpon my Hearts vnrest.

Where euery pecke they giue mee,
(Which euery houre they doe,)
Vnto such paine they driue mee,
I knowe not what to doe.

Oh, broode vnhapp'ly hatched
Of such a cursed kinde,
Where Death and Sorrowe matched,
Liue, but to kill the minde.

Wordes torments are but trifles,
That but conceits confounde;
And Natures griefes but nifles
Vnto the Spirits wounde.

They are but Cares good morrowes
That passions can declare;
While my Hearts inward sorrowes
Are all without compare.

Fortune, she seekes to sweare mee
To all may discontent mee;
Yet sayes, she doth forbeare mee,
She doth no more torment mee.

Beauty she doth retaine mee
In scarce a fauours tittle;
And though she doe disdeigne mee,
She thinkes my griefe too little.

Loue falles into a laughing
At Reasons little good,
While Sorrow, with her quaffing,
Is drunke with my heart blood.

But let her drinke and spare not,
Vntill my heart be dry;
And let Love laugh, I care not;
My hope is, I shall dy.

And Death shall only tell
My froward fortunes fashion,
That nearest vnto hell
Was found the Lovers passion.

A Solemne Sonnet.

Fortvne hath writ characters on my heart
As full of crosses as the skinne can holde,
Which tell of torments, tearing euery part,
While Death and Sorrowe do my fate vnfolde.

Patience sits leaning like a pining soule,
That had no heart to thinke of Hopes reliefe;
While fruitlesse cares discomfort doe enroule
Within the ground of neuer ending griefe.

Thoughts flie about, as all in feare confounded;
Reason growne mad, with too much mal content;
Loue, passion-rent, to see his patience wounded,
With dreadfull terrors of Despaires intent.

While Care concludes, in comforts overthrowne,
Whē Death can speak, my passiōs shal be showne.

An Extreame Passion.

Ovt of the depth of deadly griefe, tormenting day and night;
A wounded heart and wretched soule depriu'd of all delight;
Where neuer thought of comfort came, that passiō might appease;
Or by the smallest sparke of hope might giue the smallest ease:
Let me intreat that solemne Muse that serues but Sorrowes turne,
In ceasselesse sighes and endlesse sobs to helpe my soule to mourne.
But, Oh what thought beyōd al thought hath thought to think vpon,
Where Patience findes her greatest power in passions ouergon.
That neere the doore of Natures death in dolefull notes doth dwell;
In Horrors fits that will describe my too much figur'd hell.
What want, what wrong, what care, what crosse, may crucifie a hart;
But day and howre I doe endure in all and euery part?
Want to sustaine the Bodies neede, wrong to distract the minde:
Where Want makes Wit and Reason both to goe against their kinde.
Care to deuise for Comforts helpe; but so by Fortune crost,
As kils the heart, to cast the eye on nought but labour lost.
Desire to liue, in spite of Death, yet still in liuing dying;
And so a greater death than death, by want of dying, trying.
Oh, hell of hels, if euer earth such horror can afford,
Where such a world of helpelesse cares doe lay the heart aboord.
No day, no night, no thought, no dreame, but of that doleful nature,
That may amaze, or sore affright, a most afflicted creature.
Friends turnd to foes, foes vse their force; and Fortune in her pride,
Shaks hand with Fate, to make my soule the weight of sorrow bide,
Care brings in sicknes, sicknes pain, and paine with patience passion,
With biting in most bitter griefes brings feature out of fashion;
Where brawn falne cheeks, heart scalding sighs, and dimmèd eyes with teares
Doe shewe, in Lifes anatomy, what burthen Sorrowe beares.
Where all day long in helplesse cares, all hopelesse of reliefe,
I wish for night, I might not see the objectes of my griefe.
And when night comes, woes keep my wits in such a waking vaine,
That I could wish, though to my griefe, that it were day againe.
Thus daies are nights, which nights are daies, which daies are like those nights,
That to my passiōs sēse presēt but only Sorrows sights;
Which to the eye but of the minde of Misery appeare,
To fill the heart of forlorne Hope too full of heauie cheare.
Oh hart how canst thou hold so long, and art not broke ere this?

When all thy strings are but the straines that cōfort strikes amisse.
Yet must thou make thy musicke still but of that mournfull straine,
Where Sorrowe, in the sound of death, doth shew her sweetest vain:
Or where her Muses all consent in their consort to trie
Their sweetest musicke, in desire to die, and cannot die.
The pellican that kils her selfe, her young ones for to feede,
Is pleas'd to dy that they may liue, that suck when she doth bleede:
But while I in those cares consume that would my spirit kill,
Nought liues by me, when I must die, to feede but Sorrowes will.
The hart that's hūted all day long, hath sport yet with the hoūds,
And happly beats off many a dogge before his deadly wounds:
But my poore heart is hunted still with such a cruell cry,
As in their dogged humours liue, while I alone must die.
The swan that sings before her death, doth shew that she is pleas'd,
To knowe that death will not be long in helping the diseas'd:
But my poore swanlike soule, (alas) hath no such power to sing;
Because she knowes not when my death will make my care a king.
What shall I say? but only say; I knowe not what to say:
So many torments teare my heart, and tugge it euery way.
My sunne is turnd into a shade, or else mine eyes are blinde,
That Sorrowes cloude makes all seeme darke, that comes into my minde.
My youth to age; or else because my comforts are so colde,
My sorrowe makes me in conceit to be decrepit olde.
My hopes to feares; or else because my fortunes are forlorne,
My fancie makes me make my selfe vnto my selfe vnto my selfe a scorne.
My life to death; or else because my heart is so perplexed,
I finde my selfe but liuing dead, to feele my soule so vexed.
For what is here that earth can yeeld in Pleasures sweetest vaine,
But in the midst of all my cares doth still increase my paine?
While epicures are overglut, I ly, and starue for foode;
Because my conscience can not thriue vpon ill gotten good.
While other swimme in choyce of silkes, I sit alone in ragges;
Because I can not fitte the time to fill the golden bagges.
While other are bedeckt in golde, in pearle, and pretious stone;
I sigh to see they haue so much, and I can light of none.
Not that I enuie their estate, but wish that God would giue
Some comfort to my carefull hope, wherby my heart might liue.
Some please themselves in choyce of sports, in trifles and in toies;
While my poore feeble spirit feedes of nothing but annoyes.
Some haue their houses stately built, and gorgeous to beholde;
While in a cottage, bare and poore, I bide the bitter colde.
Some haue their chariots and their horse, to beare them to and fro;
While I am glad to walke on foote, and glad I can doe so.
Some haue their musickes hermony, to please their idle eares;
While of the song of sorrow still my soule the burthen beares.
Some haue their choice of all perfumes, that Natures arte can giue;
While sinne doth stinke so in my soule, as makes me loath to liue.
They, like the wielders of the world, command, and haue their will;
While I, a weakling in the world, am slaue to sorrow still.
The owle, that makes the night her day, delights yet in the darke;
But I am forc't to play the owle, that haue beene bred a larke.
The eagle from the lowest vale can mount the lofty skie;
But I am falne downe from the hill, and in the vale must die.
The sparrow in a princes house can finde a place to builde;
I scarce can finde out any place that will my comfort yeelde.
The little wrenne doth find a worme, the little finch a seede;
While my poore heart doth hunger still, and finds but little feede.
The bee doth find her hony flower, the butterflie her leafe;
But I can finde a worlde of corne, that yeeldes not me a sheafe.

The horse, the oxe, the silly asse, that tugge out all the day,
At night come home, and take their rest, and lay their worke away:
While my poore heart, both day and night, in passions ouertoild;
By ouerlabour of my braine doth finde my spirit spoiled.
The winds doe blowe away the clowds, that would obscure the sun;
And how all glorious is the sky, when once the stormes are done!
But in the heavē of my harts hope, where my loves light doth shine;
I nothing see, but clouds of cares, or else my sunne decline.
The earth is watred, smooth'd and drest, to keepe her gardens gay;
While my poore heart, in woefull thoughtes, must wither still away.
The sea is sometime at a calme, where shippes at anchor ride;
And fishes, on the sunny shore, doe play on euery side:
But my poore heart in Sorrows seas, is sicke of such a qualme;
As, while these stormy tempests holde, can neuer looke for calme.
So that I see, each bird and beast, the sea, the earth, the sky,
All sometime in their pleasures liue, while I alone must die.
Now thinke, if all this be too true, (as would it were not so)
If any creature liue on earth, that doe like sorrow knowe.
Nay, aske of Sorrow, euen her selfe, to thinke how I am wounded,
If she be not, to see my woes, within her selfe confounded:
Or say, no figure can suffice my sorrowes frame to fashion,
Where Patiēce thus hath shew'd her selfe, beyōd her selfe in passion.

Par nulla figura dolori, nec dolor meo.

A Solemne Farewell to the World.

Oh forlorne Fancy whereto dost thou liue,
To weary out the senses with vnrest?
Hopes are but cares, that but discomforts giue,
While only fooles doe clime the phoenix nest:
To heart sicke soules all joyes are but a jest,
Thou dost in vain but striue against the streame,
With blinded eyes to see the sunny beame.

Die with desire, abandoned from delight,
Thy weary winter lasteth all the yeare:
Say to thy selfe that darknesse is the light,
Wherein doth nothing but thy death appeare;
While wit and sense, in Sorrowes heauy cheare,
Findes thee an humour, but vnkindly bredde
Of Hopes illusions, in too weake a head.

Fortune affrightes thee with a thousand feares,
While Folly feedes thee with abuse of wit;
And while thy force in fainting passion weares,
Patience is ready to increase the fit,
Where agonies in their extreames doe sit:
So that, each way, thy soule is so perplexed,
As better die, then liue to be so vexed.

Say, Patience somewhat doe asswage thy paine;
Prolonged cures are too vncomfortable;
And where that care doth neuer comfort gaine,
The state, alasse must needes be miserable:
Where Sorrowes labours are so lamentable,
That Silence saies, that to the soule complains,
Concealèd sorrowes are the killing pains.

Then doe not ceasse to sigh and sobbe thy fill,
Bleede in the teares of true loue's liuing blood;
Shewe how vnkindnesse seekes the heart to kill,
That hides a buzzard in a falcons hoode:
Feede not thy self with misconceipted good;
Better to starue, then in a sugred pill
To taste the poison of the Spirits ill.

But if thou canst content thee with thy life,
And wilt endure a double death to liue,
If thou canst beare that bitter kinde of strife,
Where crosse conceipts but discontents do giue:
If to this ende thou canst thine humour driue,
And cares true patience can command thee so;
Give me then leave to tell thee what I knowe.

I knowe too well, that all too long haue tryed,
That earth containeth not that may content thee;
Sorrowe will so beset thee on each side,
That Wit nor Reason can the thought inuent thee,
But that will some way serue for to torment thee:
Hope wil deceiue thee, Happinesse goe by thee,
Fortune will faile thee, and the World defie thee.

Beauty will blinde thine eyes, bewitch thine heart,
Confound thy senses, and commaund thy will,
Scorne thy desire, not looke on thy desart,
Disdaine thy seruice, quite thy good with ill,
And make no care thy very soule to kill.
Time will outgoe thee, Sorrowe overtake thee,
And Death, a shadow of a substance, make thee.

I know this world will neuer be for thee;
Conscience must carry thee another way:
Another world must be for thee and mee,
Where happie thoughts must make their holiday,
While heauenly comforts neuer will decay.

We must not thinke in this ill age to thriue,
Where Faith and Loue are scarcely found aliue.

Wee must not build our houses on the sands,
Where euery flood will wash them quite away;
Nor set our seales vnto those wicked bands,
Where damnèd soules their debts in hel must pay:
Our states must stand vpon a better stay;
Vpon the rock we must our houses builde,
That wil our frames from winde and water shield.

Goe, bid the world, with all his trash, farewell,
And tell the earth it shall be all but dust:
These wicked wares, that worldlings buy and sell,
The moath will eat, or else the canker rust:
All flesh is grasse, and to the graue it must.
This sinke of sin is but the way to hell;
Leaue it, I say, and bid the world farewell.

Account of pompe but as a shadowed power,
And thinke of friends but as the sommer flies;
Esteeme of beauty as a fading flower,
And louers fancies but as fabled lies:
Knowe, that on earth there is no Paradise.
Who sees not heauen is surely spirit-blinde,
And like a body that doth lacke a minde.

Then let vs lie as dead, till there wee liue,
Where only loue doth liue for euer blest;
And only loue the onely life doth giue,
That bringes the soule vnto eternall rest:
Let vs this wicked, wretched world detest,
Where gracelesse hearts in hellish sins persever,
And fly to heaven, to liue in grace for euer.

A Solemne Conceipt.

1

Doth Love liue in Beauties eyes?
Why then are they so vnloving?
Patience in her passion prouing,
There his sorrowe chiefely lies.

2

Liues beliefe in lovers hearts?
Why then are they vnbelieuing?
Hourely so the spirit grieuing,
With a thousand jealous smarts?

3

Is there pleasure in Loue's passion?
Why then is it so vnpleasing,
Heart and spirit both diseasing,
Where the wits are out of fashion?

4

No: Love sees in Beauties eyes:
He hath only lost his seeing:
Where in Sorrowes only being
All his comfort wholly dies.

5

Faith, within the heart of Loue,
Feareful of the thing it hath,
Treading of a trembling path,
Doth but jealousie approue.

6

In Loves passion then what pleasure?
Which is but a lunacy:
Where griefe, feare, and jealousie,
Plague the senses out of measure?

7

Farewell, then, (vnkindly) Fancy,
In thy courses all too cruell:
Woe the price of such a jewell,
As turnes Reason to a franzy.

A Straunge A, B, C.

To learne the babies A, B, C,
Is fit for children, not for mee.
I knowe the letters all so well,
I neede not learne the way to spell;
And for the crosse, before the rowe,
I learn'd it all too long agoe.

Then let them goe to schoole that list,
To hang the lippe at — Had I wist:
I never lou'd a booke of horne,
Nor leaues that haue their letters worne;
Nor with a fescue to direct mee,
Where euery puny shall correct mee.

I will the treuant play a while,
And with mine eare mine eye beguile;
And only heare what other see,
What mocketh them as well as mee;
And laugh at him that goes to schoole,
To learne with mee to play the foole.

But, soft awhile: I haue mistooke,
This is but some imagin'd booke,
That wilfull hearts in wantons eyes
Doe onely by conceits deuise;
Where spell and put together, proue
The reading of the rules of Loue.

But if it be so, let it be:
It shall no lesson be for mee.
Let them goe spell that can not reede,
And know the crosse vnto their speede;
While I am taught but to discerne,
How to forget the thing I learne.

Fie on Pride.

The hidden Pride that lurkes in Beauties eyes,
And overlookes the humble hearts of Loue,
Doth nothing else but vaine effectes deuise,
That may discretion from the minde remoue.

Oh, how it workes in wit, for idle wordes
To buy repentance but with labour lost;
While Sorrowes fortune nothing else affordes,
But showres of raine vpon a bitter frost:

A wicked shadowe that deceiues the sight,
And breedes an itch that ouerrunnes the hart;
Which, leauing Reason in a pitious plight;
Consumes the spirit with a curelesse smart:

While wounded Patience in her passion cries,
Fie vpon Pride, that lurkes in Beauties eyes.

A Farewell to Loue.

Farewell Loue, and louing folly,
All thy thoughts are too vnholly:
Beauty strikes thee full of blindenesse,
And then kils thee with vnkindnesse.

Farewell wit, and witty reason,
All betrai'd by Fancies treason:
Loue hath of all joy bereft thee.
And to Sorrow only left thee.

Farewell will, and wilfull fancy,
All in daunger of a frenzy,
Love to Beauties bowe hath wonne thee,
And togither all vndone thee.

Farewell Beauty, Sorrowes agent;
Farewell Sorrow, Patience pagent;
Farewell Patience, Passions stayer;
Farewell Passion, Loues betrayer.

Sorrows agent, Patience pagent,
Passions stayer, Loues betrayer,
Beauty, Sorrow, Patience, Passion;
Farewell life, of such a fashion.

Fashion, so good fashions spilling;
Passion, so with passions killing:
Patience, so with sorrow wounding;
Farewell Beauty, Loues confounding.

A Jeasting Curse.

Fie vpon that too much Beauty,
That so blindeth Reasons seeing,
As, in swearing all Loues duety,
Giues him, no where else, a beeing.

Cursèd be thou, all in kindnesse,
That with Beauty Loue hast wounded;
Blessing Loue, yet in such blindenesse,
As in Beautie is confounded.

Euer maist thou liue tormented
With the faith of Loue vnfained,
Till thy heart may be contented
To relieue whom thou hast pained.

Thus, in wroth of so well pleased,
As concealeth ioyes confessing,
Till my paine be wholly eased,
Cursèd be thou, all in blessing.

So farewell and fairely note it,
He who as his soule doth hate thee,
From his very heart hath wrote it,
Neuer euill thought come at thee.

A Solemne Toie.

If that Loue had beene a king,
He would haue commanded Beauty:
But hee is a silly thing,
That hath sworne to doe her duety.

If that Loue had beene a God,
He had then beene full of grace:
But how grace and loue are odde,
Tis too plaine a pitious case.

No: Love is an idle jeast,
That hath only made a woord,
Like vnto a cuckoes neast,
That hath neuer hatcht a bird.

Then from nothing to conceiue
That may any substance bee,
Yet so many doth deceiue;
Lord of heaven, deliuer mee.

A Displeasure against Loue.

Love is witty, but not wise,
When he stares on Beauties eyes;
Finding wonders in conceit,
That doe fall out but deceit.

Wit is stable, but not staied,
When his senses are betraied;
Where, too late, Sorrow doth proue
Beauty makes a foole of Loue.

Youth is forward, but too fond,
When he falles in Cupids bond;
Where repentance lets him see,
Fancy fast is neuer free.

Age is cunning, but vnkinde,
When he once growes Cupid-blinde:
For when Beauty is vntoward,
Age can neuer be but froward.

So that I doe finde in briefe,
In the grounds of Natures griefe,
Age, and youth, and wit doe proue,
Beauty makes a foole of Love.

A Farewell to Conceipt.

Farewell Conceit: Cōceit no more wel fare:
Hope feeds the heart with humours, to no end:
Fortune is false, in dealing of her share:
Virtue in heauen must only seeke a friend.

Adieu, Desire. Desire, no more adieu,
Will hath no leasure to regard desart:
Love findes, too late, the prouerbe all too true,
That Beauties eyes stoode neuer in her heart.

Away, poore Loue. Loue, seek no more a way
Vnto thy woe, where wishing is no wealth:
In nightes deepe darkenesse neuer looke for day,
Nor in hearts sicknesse euer seeke for health.

Desire, Conceipt, away, adieu, farewell:
Love is deceiu'd, that seeks for heauen in hell.

An Unhappy, Solemne, Jeasting Curse.

Oh venome, cursed, wicked, wretched eyes,
The killing lookers on the heart of Loue:
Where witching Beauty liues but to deuise
The plague of wit, and passions hell to proue.

That snowy necke that chillest, more than snowe,
Both eyes and harts, that liue but to behold thee;
That graceles lip, frō whēce Loves grief doth grow,
Who doth in all his sweetest sense infold thee.

Those chaining hairs, more hard than iron chains,
In tying fast the fairest thoughts of Loue:
Yee shameful cheeks, that in your blushing vains
The ravisht passions of the minde doe proue.

Yee spider fingers of those spitefull hands,
That worke but webbes to tangle Fancies eyes:
That idole breast, that like an image stands,
To worke the hell of reasons heresies.

Those Fairy feete, whose chary steppes doe steale
Those hearts, whose eies do but their shadowes see:
That ruthlesse spirit, that may well reueale
Where Loues confusions all included be:

To thee, that canst or wilt not bend thy will,
To vse thy gifts, all gratious in their nature;
To Patience good, and not to Passions ill,
And maist and wilt not be a blessed creature.

I wish and pray, thine eyes may weepe for woe,
They cannot get one looke of thy beloued;
Thy snowy necke may be as colde as snowe,
With colde of feare it hath no fancy moued.

Thy lippe, in anger by thy teeth be bitten,
It can not giue one kissing sweete of Loue;
And by thy hands thy shriu'led haires be smitten,
For want of holding of thy hopes behoue.

Thy blushing cheekes loose all their liuely blood,
With pining passions of impatient thought;
That idole bodie, like a piece of wood,
Consume, to see it is esteemd for nought.

Those spider fingers, and those fairy feete,
The crampe so crooke, that they may creepe for griefe:
And, in that spirit, Sorrowes poisons meete,
To bring on death, where Loue hath no reliefe.

All these, and more iust measures of amisse
Vpon thy frownes, on faithfull Love, befall:
But sweetly smile—and then heavēs pour their blisse
On thy hairs, neck, cheeks, lip, hands, feet, and all.

A Quarrell with Loue.

Oh that I could write a story
Of Loues dealing with affection:
How hee makes the spirit sory,
That is toucht with his infection.

But he doth so closely winde him
In the plaits of will ill pleased,
That the heart can neuer finde him,
Till it be too much diseased.

Tis a subtill kinde of spirit,
Of a venome kinde of nature;
That can, like a conny ferret,
Creepe vnwares vpon a creature.

Neuer eye that can beholde it,
Though it worketh first by seeing;
Nor conceipt, that can vnfolde it,
Though in thoughts be all his being.

Oh it maketh olde men witty,
Young men wanton, women idle;
While that Patience weepes, for pitty,
Reason bitts not Natures bridle.

In it selfe it hath no substance,
Yet is working worlds of wonder;
While, in phrensies fearfull instance,
Wit and sense are put asunder.

What it is, is in coniecture,
Seeking much, but nothing finding;
Like to Fancies architecture,
With illusions, Reason blinding.

Day and night it neuer resteth,
Mocking Fancy with ill fortune;
While the spirit it molesteth,
That doth patience still importune.

Yet for all this, how to finde it,
Tis vnpossible to showe it;
When the Muse that most doth minde it,
Will be furthest off to know it.

Yet can Beauty so reteine it
In the profit of her seruice,
That she closely can mainteine it,
For her seruant chiefe in office.

In her eye she chiefely breedes it;
In her cheekes she chiefely hides it;
In her seruants faith shee feedes it,
While his only heart abides it.

All his humour is in changing,
All his work is in inuention,
All his pleasure is in ranging,
All his truthe but in intention.

Straunge in all effectes conceiued,
But, in substance, nothing sounded;
While the senses are deceiued,
That on idle thoughts are grounded.

Not to dwell vpon a trifle,
That doth Follies hope befall;
Tis but a newe nothing nifle,
Made for fooles to play withall.

A Wish in vaine.

Oh that Wit were not amazed
At the wonder of his senses,
Or his eyes not ouergazed
In Minervas excellences.

Oh that Reason were not foiled
In the rules of all his learning,
Or his learning were not spoiled
In the sweete of Loues discerning.

Oh that Beauty were not froward,
In regard of Reasons duety,
Or that Will were not vntoward
In the waiward wit of Beauty.

But since all in vaine are wishes,
Patience tels them that haue past it,
Poys'ned broth, in siluer dishes,
Kils their stomackes that doe taste it.

Wit and Reason, Loue and Learning,
All in Beauties eyes are blinded,
Where in sense of sweete discerning,
She will be vnkindly minded.

Let those hartes whose eyes perceiue her,
Triumphe, but in thoughts tormented,
Labour all they can to leaue her,
Or else die and be contented.

A Conceipt vpon an Eagle, and a Phœnix.

There sate sometime an Eagle on a hill,
Hanging his wings, as if he could not flie:
Blacke was his coate, and tauny was his bill,
Grey were his legges, and gloomy was his eye;
Blunted his talents, and his traine so bruised,
As if his brauery had beene much abused.

This foule olde birde, of some vnhappy brood,
That could abide no hauke of higher wing,
(But fed his gorge vpon such bloody foode,
As might, in feare, maintaine a cruell king,)
Faire on a rocke of pearle and pretious stone
Espied a Phœnix sitting all alone.

No sooner had this heauenly birde in sight,
But vp he flickers, as he would haue flowne:
But all in feare to make so farre a flight,
Vntill his pennes were somewhat harder growne;
He gaue a rowse: as who should say, in rage
He shew'd the fury of his froward age.

And, for this Phœnix still did front his eyes,
He cald a counsell of his kites together;
With whom in haste he wold the mean deuise,
By secret arte to leade an armie thither,
And so pull downe, from place of highe estate,
This heauenly bird, that he had so in hate.

Much talke there was, and wondrous heede was held,
How to atchieue this high attempt in hand:
Some out were sent to soare about the field,
Where flue this grace and glory of the land,
To mark her course, and how she made her wing,
And how her strēgth might stād with such a king.

And forthwith should such cages be deuised,
As should enclose full many thousand fowles;
By whom her seat should quickly be surprized,
And all her birds should handled be like owles:
No time detract: this deede must needs be don:
And ere they went, the world was wholly won.

But, soft a while: no sooner seene the land,
But, ere they came in kenning of the coast,
So great a force their fortune did withstand,
That all the brauery of the birds was lost:
Some leakt, some sanke, and some so ran on groūd,
The cages burst, and all the birds were drownd.

But when the Eagle heard what was become
Of all his flight, that flick'red here and there;
Some sicke, some hurt, some lame, and all and sūme
Or farre from hope, or all too neere in feare.
He stoupt his traine, and hung his head so sore,
As if his heart had never burst before.

A Conceited Fancy.

Pvre colours can abide no staine;
The Sunne can neuer lose his light;
And Vertue hath a heauenly vaine,
That well may claime a queenely right:
So giue my mistresse but her due,
Who tolde mee all these tales of you.

From heauen on earth the Sunne doth shine,
From Vertue comes Discretions loue;
They both are in themselues diuine,
Yet worke for weaker hearts behoue:
So would my mistresse had her due,
To tell mee still these tales of you.

But, Oh, the Sunne is in a clowde,
And Vertue liues in sweetes vnseene;
The earth with heauen is not allow'd;
A begger must not loue a Queene:
So must my mistresse haue her due,
To tell mee still these tales of you.

Then shine, faire Sunne, when clouds are gon;
Liue, Vertue, in thy queenely loue:
Choose some such place to shine vpon,
As may thy Paradise approue:
That when my mistresse hath her due,
I may heare all this heauen in you.

A Smile Misconstrued.

By your leane, a little while:
Loue hath got a Beauties smile
From on earth the fairest face:
But he may be much deceiued,
Kindenesse may be misconceiued,
Laughing oft is in disgrace.

Oh but he doth knowe her nature,
And to be that blessed creature,
That doth answere Loue with kindnesse:
Tush, the Phœnix is a fable;
Phœbus horses haue no stable;
Loue is often full of blindnesse.

Oh but he doth heare her voice,
Which doth make his heart reioyce
With the sweetenesse of her sounde:
Simple hope may be abused.
Heares he not he is refused?
Which may giue his heart a wound.

No: Loue can belieue it neuer,
Beauty fauours once and euer,
Though proud Enuie play the elfe:
Truthe and Patience haue approued,
Loue shall euer be beloued,
If my mistresse be her selfe.

An Odde Humour.

Pvrely faire, and fairely wise,
Blessed wit, and blessed eyes,
Blessed wise, and blessed faire,
Neuer may thy blissed impaire.

Kindely true, and truly kinde,
Blessed heart and blessed minde;
Blessed kind, and blessed true,
Euer may thy blisse renue.

Sweetely deare, and dearely sweete,
Blessed where these blessings meete;
Blessed meetings neuer cease;
Euer may thy blisse encrease.

Blessed Beauty, Wit, and Sense,
Blest in Natures excellence,
Where all blessinges perish neuer,
Blessed maist thou liue for euer.

A Waggery.

Childrens Ahs and Womens Ohs,
Doe a wondrous griefe disclose;
Where a dugge the one will still,
And the t'other but a will.

Then in gods name let them cry;
While they cry, they will not die:
For, but fewe that are so curst,
As to cry vntill they burst.

Say, some children are vntoward:
So some women are as froward:
Let them cry them, 'twill not kill them;
There is time enough to still them.

But if Pitty will be pleased
To relieue the small diseased,
When the helpe is once applying,
They will quickly leaue their crying.

Let the childe then sucke his fill,
Let the woman haue her will;
All will hush, was hearde before;
Ah and Oh, will cry no more.

An Odde Conceipt.

Lovely kinde, and kindly louing,
Such a minde were worth the mouing:
Truly faire, and fairely true,
Where are all these, but in you?

Wisely kinde, and kindely wise,
Blessed life, where such loue lies:
Wise, and kinde, and faire, and true,
Louely liue all these in you.

Sweetely deare, and dearely sweete,
Blessed, where these blessings meete:
Sweete, faire, wise, kinde, blessed, true,
Blessed be all these in you.

A Dolefull Fancy.

Sorrow rippe vp all thy senses,
Neerest vnto Horrors nature:
Taste of all thy quintessences,
That may kill a wretched creature.

Then beholde my wofull spirit
All in passions overthrowne;
And full closely, like a ferret,
Seize vpon it for thine owne.

But if thou doe growe dismaid,
When thou dost but looke on mee,
When my passions, well displaid,
Will but make a blast of thee.

Then, in grief of thy disgraces,
Where my fortunes doe deface thee,
Tell thy Muses to their faces,
They may learne of mee to grace thee.

For thy sighes, thy sobbes, and teares,
But thy common badges beene;
While the paine, the spirit beares,
Eates away the heart vnseene.

Where in silence swallowed vp
Are the sighes and teares of Loue,
Which are drawne to fill the cuppe,
Must be drunke to Deaths behoue.

Then beholding my hearts swoune,
In my torments more and more;
Say, when thou dost sit thee downe,
Thou wert neuer grac't before.

An Epitaph vpon Poet Spencer.

Movrnfull Muses, Sorrowe minions
Dwelling in Despaires opinions;
Yee, that neuer thought inuented
How a heart may be contented;
(But in torments all distressed,
Hopelesse how to be redressed,
All with howling and with crying,
Liue in a continuall dying,)
Sing a dirge on Spencers death,
Till your soules be out of breath.

Bidde the dunces keepe their dennes,
And the poets breake their pennes;
Bidde the sheepheards shed their teares,
And the nymphes goe teare their haires;
Bidde the schollers leaue their reeding,
And prepare their hearts to bleeding;
Bidde the valiant and the wise
Full of sorrowes fill their eyes;
All for griefe that he is gone,
Who did grace them euery one.

Fairy Queene shew fairest Queene,
How her faire in thee is seene:
Sheepeheards Calendar set downe,
How to figure best a clowne,

As for Mother Hubberts Tale,
Cracke the nut, and take the shale:
And for other workes of worth,
(All too good to wander forth,)
Grieue that euer you were wrot,
And your Author be forgot.

Farewell Arte of Poetry,
Scorning idle foolery:
Farewell true conceited Reason,
Where was neuer thought of treason:
Farewell Judgement, with inuention,
To describe a hearts intention:
Farewel Wit, whose sound and sense
Shewe a poets excellence.
Farewell, all in one togither,
And with Spencers garland, wither.

And if any Graces liue
That will vertue honour giue;
Let them shewe their true affection
In the depth of Griefes perfection,
In describing forth her glory,
When she is most deepely sory;
That they all may wish to heere
Such a song, and such a quier,
As, with all the woes they haue,
Follow Spencer to his graue.