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The louer to his dear, of his exceding loue.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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The louer to his dear, of his exceding loue.

Phebe twise took her horns, twise layd them by:
I, all the while, on thee could set no yie.
Yet doo I liue: if life you may it call,
Which onely holds my heauy hert, as thrall.
Certesse for death doo I ful often pray,
To rid my wo, and pull these pangs away.
So plaines Prometh, his womb no time to faile:
And, ayelife left, had leefer, he might quaile.
I erre, orels who this deuise first found,
By that gripes name he cleped loue vnsound.
In all the town, what streat haue I not seen?
In all the town, yet hath not Carie been.
Eyther thy sier restraines thy free outgate,
O woman, worthy of farre better state:


Or peeplepesterd London lykes thee nought,
But pleasant ayr, in quiet countrie sought.
Perchaunce, in olds our loue thou doest repeat,
And in sure place woldst euery thing retreat.
Forth shall I go, ne will I stay for none,
Untyll I may somwhere finde thee alone.
Therwhile, keep you of hands, and neck the heew:
Let not your cheeks becoom or black, or bleew.
Go with welcouerd hed: for you incase
Apollo spied, burn wold he on your face.
Daphne, in groue, clad with bark of baytree:
Ay mee, if such a tale should ryse of thee.
Calisto found, in woods, Ioues force to fell:
I pray you, let him not like you so well.
Eigh, how much dreed? Here lurks of theeus a haunt:
Whoso thou beest, preyseeker prowd, auaunt.
Acteon may teach thee Dictynnaes ire:
Of trouth, this goddesse hath as fiers a fire.
What doo I speak? O chief part of my minde,
Unto your eares these woords no way doo finde.
Wold god, when you read this, obserue I might
Your voyce, and of your countinaunce haue sight,
Then, for our loue, good hope were not to seek:
I mought say with myself, she will be meek.
Doutlesse I coom, what euer town you keep,
Or where you woon, in woods, or mountanes steep:
I coom, and if all pear not in my face,
Myself will messenger be of my case.
If to my prayer all deaf, you dare saye, no:
Streight of my death agilted shall you go.
Yet in mid death, this same shall ease my hart:
That Carie, thou wert cause of all the smart.