Poems: vvritten by Wil. Shake-speare. Gent

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Title
Poems: vvritten by Wil. Shake-speare. Gent
Author
Shakespeare, William, 1564-1616.
Publication
Printed at London :: By Tho. Cotes, and are to be sold by Iohn Benson, dwelling in St. Dunstans Church-yard,
1640.
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"Poems: vvritten by Wil. Shake-speare. Gent." In the digital collection Early English Books Online. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/A12034.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed June 16, 2024.

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POEMS

The glory of beautie.

AH wherefore with infection should he live, And with his presence grace impietie, That sinne by him advantage should achieve, And lace it selfe with his societie? Why should false painting imitate his cheeke, And steale dead seeing of his living hew? Why should poore beautie indirectly seeke, Roses of shaddow, since his Rose is true? Why should he live, now nature banckrout is, Beggerd of blood to blush through lively veines, For shee hath no exchecker now but his, And pou of many, lives upon his gaines? O him she stores, to show what wealth she had, In dares long since, before these last so bad.

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Thus is his cheeke the map of daies out-worne, When beauty liv'd and dy'd as flowers do now, Before these bastard signes of faire were borne, Or durst inhabit on a living brow: Before the goulden tresses of the dead, The right of sepulchers were shorne away, To live a second life on second head▪ Ere beauties dead fleece made another gay: In him those holy antique howers are seene, Without all ornament, it selfe and true, Making no summer of an others greene, Robbing no old to dresse his beautie new, And him as for a map doth Nature store, To show false Art what beautie was of yore, Those parts of thee that the worlds eye doth view, Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend: All tongues (the voice of soules) give thee that end, Vttring bare truth, even so as foes Commend. Their outward thus with outward praise is crownd, But those same tongues that give thee so thine owne, In other accents doe this praise confound By seeing farther then the eye hath showne. They looke into the beautie of thy mind, And that in guesse they measure by thy deeds, Then churls their thoughts (although their eyes were kind) To thy faire flower adde the ranke smell of weeds, But why thy odor matcheth not thy show, The soyle is this, that thou doest common grow.

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Injurious Time.

LIke as the waves make towards the pibled shore, So doe our minutes hasten to their end, Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toile all forwards do contend. Nativitie once in the maine of light. Crawles to maturitie, wherewith being crown'd, Crooked eclipses gainst his glory fight, And time that gave, doth now his gift confound, Time doth transfixe the florish set on youth, And delves the paralels in beauties brow, Feedes on the rarities of natures truth, And nothing stands but for his Sithe to mow, And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand Praysing thy worth, dispight his cruell hand. Against my love shall be as I am now With times injurious hand chrusht and ore-worne, When houres have dreind his blood and fild his brow With lines and wrincles, when his youthfull morne Hath travaild on to Ages steepie night, And all those beauties whereof now he's King Are vanishing, or vanisht out of sight, Stealing away the treasure of his Spring. For such a time doe I now fortifie Against confounding Ages cruell knife, That he shall never cut from memory My sweet loves beautie, though my lovers life. His beautie shall in these blacke lines be seene, And they shall live, and he in them still greene.

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When I have seene by times fell hand defaced The rich proud cost of outworne buried age, When sometime loftie towers I see downe rased, And brasle eternall slave to mortall rage. When I have seene the hungry Ocean gaine Advantage on the Kingdome of the shoare, And the firme soile win of the watry maine, Increasing store with losse, and losse with store, When I have seene such interchange of state, Or state it selfe confounded, to decay, Ruine hath taught me thus to ruminate That time will come and take my love away. This thought is as a death which cannot choose But weepe to have, that which it feares to loose. Since brasse, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundlesse sea, But sad mortallity ore-swaies their power, How with this rage shall beautie hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger then a flower? O how shall sommers hungry breath hold out, Against the wrackfull siedge of battring dayes, When rocks impregnable are not so stoute, Nor gates of steele so strong but time decayes? O fearefull meditation, where a lack Shall times best Iewell from times chest lie hid? Or what strong hand can hold his swift foote back, Or who his spoile or beautie can forbid? O none, unlesse this miracle have might, That in black inck my love may still shine bright. Tyr'd with all these for restfull death I cry, As to behold desart a begger borne, And needie Nothing trimd in jollitie, And purest faith unhappily forsworne,

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And gilded honour shamefully misplast, And maiden vertue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd, And strength by limping sway disabled, And Art made tung-tide by authoritie, And Folly (Doctor-like) controuling skill, And simple-Truth miscalde Simplicitie, And captive-good attending Captaine ill. Tyr'd with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that to dye, I leave my love alone.

True Admiration.

WHat is your substance, whereof are you made, That millions of strange shaddowes on you tend? Since every one, hath every one, one shade, And you but one, can every shaddow lend: Discribe Adonis and the counterfet, Is poorely imitated after you, On Hellens cheeke all art of beautie set, And you in Grecian tires are painted new: Speake of the spring, and foyzen of the yeare, The one doth shaddow of your beautie show, The other as your bountie doth appeare, And you in every blessed shape we know. In all externall grace you have some part, But you like none, none you for constant heart. O how much more doth beautie beautious seeme, By that sweet ornament which truth doth give, The Rose lookes faire, but fairer we it deeme For that sweet odor, which doth in it live:

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The Canker-bloomes have full as deepe a die, As the perfumed tincture of the Roses, Hang on such thornes, and play as wantonly, When summers breath their masked buds discloses: But for their vertue onely in their show, They live unmoov'd, and unrespected fade, Die to themselves. Sweet Roses doe not so, Of their sweet deathes, are sweetest odors made: And so of you, beautions and lovely youth, When that shall vade, by verse distils your truth.

The sorce of love.

BEing your slave what should I doe but tend, Vpon the houres, and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend, Nor services to doe till you require. Nor dare I chide the world without end houre, Whilst I (my soveraigne) watch the clock for you, Not thinke the bitternesse of absence sowre, When you have bid your servant once adue. Nor dare I question with my jealous thought, Where you may be, or your affaires suppose, But like a sad slave stay and thinke of nought Save where you are, how happy you make those. So true a foole is love, that in your Will, (Though you doe any thing) he thinkes no ill. That God for bid, that made me first your slave, I should in thought controule your times of pleasure,

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Or at your hand th'account of houres to crave, Being your vassale bound to stay your leisure. Oh let me suffer (being at your beck) Th'imprison'd absence of your libertie, And patience tame, to sufferance bide each check, Without accusing you of injury. Be where you list, your charter is so strong, That you your selfe may priviledge your time To what you will, to you it doth belong, Your selfe to pardon of selfe-doing crime. I am to waite, though waiting so be hell, Not blame your pleasure be it ill or well.

The beautie of Nature.

IF there be nothing new, but that which is, Hath beene before, how are our braines beguild, Which labouring for invention beare amisse The second burthen of a former child? O that record could with a back-ward looke, Even of five hundreth courses of the Sunne, Show me your image in some antique booke, Since mine at first in character was done. That I might see what the old world could say, To this composed wonder of your frame, Whether we are mended, or where better they, Or whether revolution be the same. Oh sure I am the wits of former dayes, To subjects worse have given admiring praise.

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Loves crueltie.

FRom fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauties Rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heire might beare his memory: But thou contracted to thine owne bright eyes, Feedst thy lights flame with selfe substantiall fewell, Making a famine where aboundance lies, Thy selfe thy foe, to thy sweet selfe too cruell: Thou that art now the worlds fresh ornament, And only herauld to the gaudy spring, Within thine owne bud buriest thy content, And tender chorle makst wast in niggarding: Pitty the world, or else this glutton be, To eate the worlds due, by the grave and thee. When fortie Winters shall beseige thy brow, And digge deep trenches in thy beauties field, Thy youthes proud livery so gaz'd on now, Will be a totter'd weed of small worth held: Then being askt, where all thy beautie lies, Where all the treasure of thy lusty dayes; To say within thine owne deepe sunken eyes, Were an all-eating shame, and thriftlesse praise. How much more praise deserv'd thy beauties use, If thou couldst answere this faire child of mine Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse. Prooving his beautie by succession thine. This were to be new made when thou art old, And see thy blood warme when thou feel'st it cold.

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Looke in thy glasse and tell the face thou vewest, Now is the time that face should forme an other, Whose fresh repaine if now thou not renewest, Thou doo'st beguile the world, unblesse some mother. For where is she so faire whose un-eard wombe Disdaines the tillage of thy husbandry? Or who is he so fond will be the tombe, Of his selfe love to stop posteritie? Thou art thy mothers glasse and she in thee Calls backe the lovely Aprill of her prime, So thou through windowes of thine age shalt see, Dispight of wrinkles this thy goulded time. But if thou live remember not to be, Die single and thine Image dies with thee.

Youthfull glory.

O That you were your selfe, but love you are No longer yours, then you your selfe here live, Against this comming end you should prepare, And your sweet semblance to some other give. So should that beauty which you hold in lease Find no determination, then you were Your selfe again after your selfes decease, When your sweet issue your sweete forme should beare. Who lets so faire a house fall to decay, Which husbandry in honour might uphold, Against the stormy gusts of winters day And barren rage of deaths eternall cold?

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O none but unthrifts, dare my love you know, You had a Father, let your Son say so. Not from the stars doe I my judgement plucke, And yet me thinkes I have Astronomy, But not to tell of good, or evill lucke, Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons qualitie, Nor can I fortune to breefe minuts tell; Pointing to each his thunder, raine and vvinde▪ Or say with Princes if it shall goe well By oft predict that I in heaven finde. But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, And constant stars in them I read such art As truth and beautie shall together thrive If from thy selfe, to store thou wouldst convert: Or else of thee this I prognosticate, Thy end is Truths and Beauties doome and date▪ When I consider every thing that growes Holds in perfection but a little moment. That this huge stage presenteth nought but showe Whereon the Stars in secret influence comment. When I perceive that men as plants increase, Cheated and checkt even by the selfe-same skie: Vaunt in their youthfull sap, at height decrease, And were their brave state our of memory. Then the conceit of this inconstant stay, Sets you most rich in youth before my sight▪ Where watfull time debateth with decay To change your day of youth to fullied night, And all in war with Time for love of you As he takes from you, I ingraft you new.

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Good Admonition.

Vt wherefore doe not you a mightier way Make warre upon this bloudy tirant time? nd fortifie your selfe in your decay ith meanes more blessed then my barren time? ow stand you on the top of happy houres, nd many maiden gardens yet unset, ith vertuous wish would beare your living flowers, uch liker then your painted counterfeit: So should the lines of life that life repaire hich this (Times pensell or my pupill pen) either in inward worth nor outward faire an make you live your selfe in eyes of men, To give away your selfe, keeps your selfe still, And you must live drawne by your owne sweet skill. ho will beleeve my verse in time to come f it were fild with your most high deserts? hough yet heaven knowes it is but as a tombe hich hides your life, and showes not halfe your parts: f I could write the beautie of your eyes, And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say this Poet lies, uch heavenly touches nere toucht earthly faces. o should my papers (yellowed with their age) e scorn'd, like old men of lesse truth then tongue, And your true rights be termd a Poets rage, And stretched miter of an Antique song. But were some childe of yours alive that time You should live twise in it, and in my rime.

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Quicke prevention.

LOe in the Orient when the gracious light, Lifts up his burning head each under eye Doth homage to his new appearing fight, Serving with lookes his sacred majestie, And having climb'd the steepe up heavenly hill, Resembling strong youth in his middle age, Yet mortall lookes adore his beautie still, Attending on his golden pilgrimage: But when from high-most pitch with weary care, Like feeble age he reeleth from the day, The eyes (fore dutious) now converted are From his low tract and looke another way: So thou, thy selfe out-going in thy noon: Vnlok'd on diest unlesse thou get a sonne.

Magazine of beautie.

VNthriftie lovelinesse why dost thou spend, Vpon thy selfe thy beauties legacy? Natures bequest gives nothing but doth lend, And being frank she lends to those are free: Then beautions niggard why doost thou abuse, The bountious largese given thee to give? Profitles Vsurer, why dost thou use So great a summe of summes yet can'st not live?

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For having traffike with thy selfe alone, Thou of thy selfe thy sweet selfe dost deceive, Then how when nature calls thee to be gone, What acceptable Audit can'st thou leave? Thy unus'd beautie must be tomb'd with thee, Which used lives th'executor to be. Those howres that with gentle worke did frame, The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell Will play the tirants to the very same, And that unfaire which fairely doth excell: For never resting time leads Summer on, To hidious winter and confounds him there, Sap checkt with frost and lustie leav's quite gon. Beautie ore-snow'd and barenesse every where, Then were not summers distillation left A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glasse, Beauties effect with beautie were beret, Nor it nor no remembrance what it was. But flowers distil'd though they with winter meete, Leese but their show, their substance still lives sweet. Then let not winters wragged hand deface, In thee thy summer ere thou be distil'd: Make sweet some viall; treasure thou some place, With beauties treasure ere it be selfe kil'd: That use is not forbidden usury, Which happies those that pay the willing lone; That's for thy selfe to breed another thee, Or ten times happier be it ten for one, Ten times thy selfe were happier then thou art, If ten of thine ten times refigur'd thee, Then what could death doe if thou should'st depart, Leaving thee living in posterity?

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Be not selfe-wild for thou art much too faire, To be deaths conquest and make wormes thine heire▪

An invitation to Marriage.

MVsick to heare, why hear'st thou musick sadly, Sweets with sweets warre not, joy delights in joy: Why lov'st thou that which thou receavst not gladly, Or else receiv'st with pleasure thine annoy? If the true concord of well tuned sounds, By unions married do offend thine eare, They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds In singlenesse the parts that thou should'st beare: Marke how one string sweet husband to another, Strikes each in each by mutuall ordering; Resembling ier, and child, and happy mother, Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing: Whose speechlesse song being many, seeming one, Sings this to thee thou single wilt prove none. It is for feare to wet a widdowes eye That thou consum'st thy selfe in single life? Ah▪ if thou issule••••e shalt hap to die, The world will waile thee like a makelesse wife, The world will be thy widdow and still weepe, That thou no forme of thee hast left behind, When every privat widdow well may keepe, By childrens eyes, her husbands shape in minde: Looke what an unthrift in the world doth spend Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoyes it

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But beauties waste hath in the world an end, And kept unus'd the user so destroyes it: No love toward others in that bosome sits That on himselfe such murdrous shame commits. For shame d••••y that thou bear'st love to any Who for thy selfe art so unprovident Grant▪ if thou wilt, thou art belov'd of many, But that thou none lov'st is most evident: For thou art so possest with murdrous hate, That gainst thy selfe thou stickst not to conspire, Seeking that beautious roofe to ruinate Which to repaire should be thy chiefe desire: O change thy thought, that I may change my minde, Shall hate be fairer log'd then gentle love? Be as thy presence is gracious and kind, Or to thy selfe at least kind hearted prove, Make thee another selfe for love of me, That beautie still may live in thine or thee. As fast as thou shalt wane so fast thou grow'st, In one of thine, from that which thou departest, And that fresh blood which yongly thou bestow'st, Thou maist call thine, when thou from youth convertest, Herein lives wisedome, beautie, and increase, Without this folly, age, and cold decay, If all were minded so, the times should cease, And threescore yeares would make the world away: Let those who nature hath not made for store▪ Harsh▪ featurelesse, and rude, barrenly perish, Looke whom she best indow'd, she gave the more; Which bountious gift thou shouldst in bountie cherrish, She carv'd thee for her sele▪ and ment thereby, Thou shouldst print more, not let that coppy die▪

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When I doe count the clock that tels the time, And see the brave day sunck in hidious night, When I behold the violet past prime, And sable curls or silver'd ore with white: When loftie trees I see barren of leaves▪ Which erst from heat did canopi the herd And Sommers greene all girded up in sheaves Borne on the beare with white and bristly beard: Then of thy beautie doe I question make That thou among the wasts of time must goe, Since sweets and beauties doe themselves forsake, And die as fast as they see others grow, And nothing gainst Times sithe can make defence Save bread to brave him▪ when he takes thee hence.

False beleefe.

WHen my Love sweares that she is made of truth, I doe beleeve her (though I know she lies) That she might thinke me some untutor'd youth, Vnskilfull in the worlds false forgeries. Thus vainly thinking that she thinkes me young▪ Although I know my yeares be past the best: I smiling▪ credit her false speaking tongue, Outfacing faults in Love, with loves ill rest. But wherefore sayes my love that shee is young? And wherefore say not I, that I am old? O, Loves best habit is a soothing tongue, And Age (in love) loves not to have yeares told▪

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Therefore Ile lie with Love, and Love with me, Since that our faults in Love thus smother'd be.

A Temptation.

TWo loves I have, of Comfort, and Despaire, That like two Spirits doe suggest me still: My better Angell is a Man (right faire) My worser spirit a Woman (colour'd ill.) To winne me soone to hell, my Female evill Tempteth my better Angell from my side, And would corrupt my Saint to be a Divell, Wooing his puritie, with her faire pride. And whether that my Angell be turnd feend, Suspect I may (yet not directly tell:) For being both to me: both to each friend, I ghesse one Angell in anothers hell. The truth I shall not know, but live in doubt▪ Till my bad Angell fire my good one out.

Fast and loose.

DId not the heavenly Rhetoricke of thine eye, Gainst whom the world could not hold argument, Perswade my heart to this false perjurie: Vowes for thee broke deserve not punishment,

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A woman I forswore: but I will proue Thou being a Goddesse, I forswore not thee: My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love, Thy grace being gaind, cures all disgrace in me. My vow was breath, and breath a vapour is, Then thou faire Sun, that on this earth doth shine, Exhale this vapour vow, in thee it is: If broken, thn it is no fault of mine. If by me broke what foole is not so wise To breake an Oath, to win a Paradise?

True content.

SO is it not with me as with that Muse, Stird by a painted beautie to his verse, Who heaven it selfe for ornament doth use, And every faire with his faire doth reherse, Making a cooplement of proud compare With Sunne and Moone, with earth and seas rich gems: With Aprills first borne flowers and all things rare, That heavens ayre in this huge rondure hems, O let me true in love but truly write, And then beleeve me, my love is as faire, As any mothers childe, though not so bright As those gold candells fixt in heavens aye: Let them say more that like of heare-say well, I will not prayse that purpose not to sell.

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A bashfull Lover.

AS an unperfect actor on the stage, Who with his feare is put besides his part, Or some fierce thing repleat with too much rage, Whose strengths abnndance, weakens his owne heart; So I for feare of trust, forget to say, The perfect ceremony of loves right, And in mine owne loves strength seeme to decay, Ore-charg'd with burthen of mine owne loves might, O let my books be then the eloquence, And domb presagers of my speaking brest, Who pleade for love, and looke for recompence, More then that tongue that more hath more exprest. O learne to read what silent love hath writ, To heare with eyes belongs to loves fine wit.

Strong conceite.

MY glasse shall not perswade me I am old, So long as youth and thou art of one date, But when in thee times forrowes I behold, Then looke I death my dayes should expiate. For all that beautie that doth cover thee, Is but the seemely rayment of my heart, Which in thy brest doth live, as thine in me, How can I then be elder then thou art?

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O therefore love be of thy selfe so wary, As I not for my selfe, but for thee will, Bearing thy heart which I will keepe so chary As tender nurse her babe from faring ill, Presume not on thy heart when mine is slaine, Thou gav'st me thine not to give backe againe.

A sweet provocation.

SWeet Cytheria, sitting by a Brooke, With young Adonis, lovely, fresh and greene, Did court the Lad with many a lovely looke, Such lookes as none could looke but beauties Queene. She told him stories, to delight his eares: She show'd him favors, to allure his eye: To win his heart, she toucht him here and there, Touches so soft, still conquer chastitie. But whether unripe yeares did want conceit, Or he refus'd to take her figured proffer, The tender nibler would not touch the bait, But smile, and jest, at every gentle offer: Then fell she on her backe, faire Queene, and toward He rose and ran away, ah foole too froward.

A constant vow.

IF love make me forsworne how shall I sweare to love? O, never faithcould hold, if not to beautie vowed:

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Though to my selfe forsworne, to thee Ile constant prove, Those thoughts to me like Okes, to thee like Oiers bowed, Studdy his byas leaves, and makes his booke thine eyes, Where all those pleasures lives, that Art can comprehend: If knowledge be the marke, to know thee shall suffice: Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend, All ignorant that soule, that sees thee without wonder, Which is to me some prayse, that I thy parts admire: Thine eye Ioves lightning seemes, thy voyce his dreadfull thunder Which (not to anger bent) is musick and sweet fire. Celestiall as thou art, O, doe not love that wrong: To sing heavens prayse, with such an earthly tongue.

The Exchange.

A Womans face with natures owne hand painted, Hast thou the Master Mistris of my passion, A womans gentle heart but not acquainted With shifting change as is false womens fashion, An eye more bright then theirs, lesse false in rowling: Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth, A man in hew all Hews in his controuling, Which steales mens eyes, and womens soules amazeth: And for a woman went thou first created, Till nature as she wrought thee fell a doting, And by addition me of thee defeated, By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. But since she prickt thee out for womens pleasure, Mine be thy love and thy loves use their treasure.

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▪A disconsolation.

WEary with toyle, I haste me to my bed, The deare repose for lims with travaile tired, But then begins a journey in my head To worke my minde, when bodies work's expired. For then my thoughts (from far where I abide) Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, And keepe my drooping eye-lids open wide, Looking on darkenesse which the blind doe see. Save that my soules imaginary sight Presents their shaddow to my sightlesse view, Which like a jewell hunge in gastly night) Makes blacke night beautious and her old face new. Loe thus by day my lims, by night my mind, For thee, and for my selfe, no quiet finde. How can I then returne in happy plight That am debard the benefit of rest? When dayes oppression is not eazd by night, But day by night and night by day opprest. And each (though enemies to others raigne) Doe in consent shake hands to torture me, The one by toyle, the other to complaine How far I toyle, still farther off from thee. I tell the Day to please him thou art bright, And do'st him grace when clouds doe blot the heaven: So flatter I the swart complexiond night, When sparkling stars twire, not thou guil'st th'even. But day doth daily draw my sorrowes longer, And night doth nightly make greefes length seeme▪ stronger

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When in disgrace with Fortune and mens eyes, I all alone be weepe my out-cast state, And trouble deafe heaven with my bootlesse cries, And looke upon my selfe and curse my fate. Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featur'd like him, like him with friends possest, Desiring this mans art, and that mans skop, With what I most injoy contented least, Yet in these thoughts my selfe almost despising, Haply I thinke on thee, and then my state, (Like to the Larke at breake of day arising) From sullen earth sings himns at Heavensgate, For thy sweet love remembred such wealth brings, That then I scorne to change my state with Kings.

Cruell Deceit.

SCarse had the Sunne dride up the deawy morne, And scarse the herd gone to the hedge for shade: When Cytherea (all in love forlorne) A longing tariance for Adonis made Vnder an Osyer growing by a brooke, A brooke, where Adon us'd to coole his spleene: Hot was the day, she hotter that did looke For his approach, that often there had beene. Anon he comes, and throwes his Mantle by, And stood starke naked on the brookes greene brim: The Sunne look't on the world with glorious eye, Yet not so wistly, as this Queene on him:

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He spying her, bounst in (whereas he stood) Oh Iove (quoth she) why was not I a stood?

The unconstant Lover.

FAire is my love, but not so faire as fickle, Milde as a Dove, but neither true nor trustie, Brighter then glasse, and yet as glasse is brittle, Softer then wax, and yet as Iron rusty; A lilly pale, with damaske die to grace her, None fairer, nor none falser to deface her.
Her lips to mine how often hath she joyned, Betweene each kisse her oathes of true love swearing: How many tales to please me hath she coyned, Dreading my love, the losse thereof still fearing. Yet in the midst of all her pure protestings, Her faith, her oathes, her teares, and all were jeastings.
She burnt with love, as straw with fire flameth, She burnt out love, as soone as straw out burneth; She fram'd the love, and yet she foyld the framing, She bad love last, and yet she fell a turning. Was this a lover, or a Letcher whether? Bad in the best, though excellent in neither.

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The benefit of Friendship.

WHen to the Sessions of sweet silent thought, I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lacke of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new waile my deare times waste▪ Then can I drowne an eye (unus'd to flow) For precious friends hid in deaths datelesse night, And weepe a fresh loves long since canceld woe, And moane th'expence of many a vanisht sight. Then can I greeve at greevances fore gone, And heavily from woe to woe tell ore The sad account of fore-bemoned mone, VVhich I new pay, as if not payd before. But if the while I thinke on thee (deare friend) All losses are restor'd, and sorrowes end. Thy bosome is indeared with all hearts, VVhich I by lacking have supposed dead, And there raignes Love and all Loves loving parts, And all those friends which I thought buried. How many a holy and obsequious teare Hath deare religious love stolne from mine eye, As interest of the dead, which now appeare, But things remov'd that hidden in there lye. Thou art the grave where buried love doth live. Hung with the trophies of my lovers gon, VVho all their parts of me to thee did give, That due of many, now is thine alone, Their images I lov'd, I view in thee, And thou (all they) hast all the all of me.

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If thou survive my well contented day, When that churle death my bones with dust shall cover And shalt by fortune once more re-survay: These poore rude lines of thy deceased Lover: Compare them with the bett'ring of the time, And though they be out-stript by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rime, Exceeded by the hight of happier men. Oh then vouchsafe me but this loving thought, Had my friends Muse growne with this growing age, A dearer birth then this his love had brought To march in ranckes of better equipage: But since he dyed and Poets better prove, Theirs for their stile ile read, his for his love.

Friendly concord.

IF Musicke and sweet Poetrie agree, As they must needs (the Sister and the brother) Then must the love be great twixt thee and me, Because thou lov'st the one, and I the other. Dowland to thee is deare, whose heavenly touch Vpon the Lute, doth ravish humane sense: Spencer to me, whose deepe Conceit is such, As passing all conceit, needs no defence. Thou lov'st to heare the sweet melodious sound, That Phoebus Lute (the Queene of Musicke) makes And I in deepe delight am chiefly drownd, When as himselfe to singing he betakes.

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One God is God of both (as Poets faine) One Knight loves Both, and both in thee remaine.

Inhumanitie.

FAire was the morne, when the faire Queene of Love, Paler for sorrow then her milke white Dove, For Adons sake, a youngster proud and wilde, Her stand she takes upon a steepe up hill. Anon Adonis comes with horne and hounds, She silly Queene, with more then loves good will, Forbad the boy he should not passe those grounds, Once (quoth she) did I see a faire sweet youth Here in these brakes, deepe wounded with a Boare, Deepe in the thigh a spectacle of ruth, See in my thigh (quoth she) here was the sore, She shewed hers, he saw more wounds then one, And blushing fled, and left her all alone.

A congratulation.

HOw can my Muse want subject to invent While thou dost breath that powr'st into my verse, Thine owne sweet argument, too excellent, For every vulgar paper to rehearse: Oh give thy selfe the thankes if ought in me, Worthy perusall stand against thy sight,

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For who's so dumbe that cannot write to thee, When thou thy selfe dost give invention light? Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth Then those old nine which rimers invocate, And he that cals on thee, let him bring forth Eternall numbers to out-live long date. If my slight Muse doe please these curious dayes, The paine be mine, but thine shall be the praise. Oh how thy worth with manners may I sing, When thou art all the better part of me? What can mine owne praise to mine owne selfe bring; And what is't but mine owne when I praise thee, Even for this, let us devided live, And our deare love loose name of single one, That by this separation I may give: That due to thee which thou deserv'st alone: Oh absence what a torment wouldst thou prove, Were it not thy soure leisure gave sweet leave, To entertaine the time with thoughts of love, VVhich time and thoughts so sweetly dost deceive. And that thou teachest how to make one twaine, By praysing him here who doth hence remaine. Take all my loves, my love, yea take them all, What hast thou then more then thou hadst before? No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call, All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more: Then if for my love, thou my love receivest▪ I cannot blame thee, for my love thou▪ usest, But yet be blam'd, if thou this selfe deceavest By wilfull taste of what thy selfe refusest. I doe forgive thy robb'ry gentle theefe Although thou steale thee all my povertie:

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And yet love knowes it is a greater griefe To beare loves wrong, then hates knowne injury. Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well showes▪ Kill me with spights yet we must not be foes

Losse and gaine.

THose pretty wrongs that libertie commits, When I am sometimes absent from thy heart▪ Thy beautie, and thy yeares full well befits, For still temptation followes where thou art. Gentle thou art, and therefore to be wonne, Beautious thou art, therefore to be assailed. And when a woman wooes, what womans sonne, Will sourely leave her till he have prevailed. Aye me, but yet thou might•••• my seate forbeare, And chide thy beautie, and thy straying youth, Who lead thee in their ryot even there Where thou art for't to break a twofold truth: Hers by thy beautie tempting her to thee, Thine by thy beautie being false to me. That thou hast her it is not all my griefe, And yet it may be sayd I lov'd her dearely, That she hath thee is of my wayling cheefe, A losse in love that touches me more neerely. Loving offendors thus I will excuse yee, Thou doest love her, because thou knowst I love her, And for my sake even so doth she abuse me, Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her,

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If I loose thee, my losse is my loves gaine, And loosing her, my friend hath found that losse; Both finde each other, and I loose both waine, And both for my sake lay on me this crosse, But here's the joy, my friend and I are one, Sweet flattery, then shee loves but me alone.

Foolish disdaine.

VEnus with Adonis sitting by her, Vnder a Mirtle shade began to wooe him, She told the youngling how god Mars did try her, And as he fell to her, she fell to him, Even thus (quoth she) the warlike god embrac't me, And then she clipt Adonis in her armes: Even thus (quoth she) the warlike god unlac't me, As if the boy should use like loving charmes: Even thus (quoth she) he seized on my lippes, And with her lips on his did act the seizure: And as she fetched breath, away he skips, And would not take her meaning nor her pleasure. Ah, that I had my Lady at this bay: To kisse and clip me till I run away.

Ancient Antipothy.

CRabbed age and youth cannot live together, Youth is full of pleasance, Age is full of care,

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Youth like summer morne, Age like winter weather, Youth like summer brave, Age like winter bare. Youth is full of sport, Ages breath is short, Youth is nimble, Age is lame, Youth is hot and bold, Age is weake and cold, Youth is wild, and age is tame. Age I doe abhor thee, Youth I doe adore thee, O my love my love is young: Age I doe defie thee, Oh sweet Shepheard hie thee: For me thinks thou staies too long.

Beauties valuation.

BEautie is but a vaine and doubtfull good, A shining glosse, that vadeth suddainly, A flower that dies, when first it gins to bud, A brittle glasse, that's broken presently. A doubtfull good, a glosse, a glasse, a flower, Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an houre. And as goods lost, are eld or never found, As vaded glosse no rubbing will refresh, As flowers dead, lie withered on the ground, As broken glasse no symant can redresse. So beautie blemisht once, for ever lost, Inspite of phisicke, painting, paine and cost.

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Melancholy thoughts.

IF the dull substance of my flesh were thought, Injurious distance should not stop my way, For then dispight of space I would be brought, From limits farre remote, where thou doost stay, No matter then although my foote did stand Vpon the farthest earth remoov'd from thee, For nimble thought can jumpe both sea and land, As soone as thinke the place where he would be. But ah, thought kills me that I am not thought To leape large lengths of miles when thou art gone, But that so much of earth and water wrought, I must attend, times leasure with my mone. Receiving naughts by elements so sloe, But heavy teares, badges of eithers woe. The other two, slight ayre, and purging fire, Are both with thee, where ever I abide, The first my thought, the other my desire, These present absent with swift motion slide. For when these quicker Elements are gone In tender Embassie of love to thee, My life being made of foure, with two alone, Sinkes downe to death, opprest with melancholy. Vntill lives composition be recured, By those swift messengers return'd from thee, Who even but now come backe againe assured, Of their faire health, recounting it to me. This told, I joy, but then no longer glad, I send them back againe and straight grow sad.

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Loves Losse.

SWeet Rose, faire flower, untimely pluckt, soone vaded, Plukt in the bud, and vaded in the spring: Bright Orient pearle, alacke too timely shaded, Faire creature, kild too soone by Deaths sharpe sting: Like a greene plumbe that hangs upon a tree: And fals (through winde) before the fall should be. I weepe for thee, and yet no cause I have, For why; thou lefts me nothing in thy Will, And yet thou lefts me more then I did crave, For why: I craved nothing of thee still: O yes (deare friend) I pardon crave of thee, Thy discontent thou didst bequeath to me.

Loves Releefe.

FVll many a glorious morning have I seene, Flatter the mountaine tops with soveraigne eye, Kissing with golden face the meddowes greene; Gilding pale streames with heavenly alcumy: Anon permit the basest clouds to ride, With ougly rack on his celestiall face, And from the forlorne world his visage hide Stealing unseene to west with this disgrace: Even so my Sunne one early morne did shine, With all triumphant splender on my brow,

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But out alack, he was but one houre mine, The region cloude hath mask'd him from me novv. Yet him for this, my love no whit disdaineth, Suns of the world may staine, when heavens sun stayne Why didst thou promise such a beautious day, And make me travaile forth vvithout my cloake, To let base clouds ore take me in my way, Hiding thy brav'ry in their rotten smoke. Tis not enough that through the cloude thou breake, To dry the raine on my storme-beaten face, For no man vvell of such a salve can speake, That heales the vvound, and cures not the disgrace: Nor can thy shame give phisicke to my griefe, Though thou repent, yet I have still the losse, Th' offenders sorrovv lends but vveake reliefe To him that beares the strong offences losse. Ah but those teares are pearle vvhich thy love sheeds, And they are rich, and ransome all ill deeds. No more be greev'd at that which thou hast done, Roses have thornes, and silver fountaines mud, Clouds and eclipses staine both Moone and Sunne, And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud. All men make faults, and even I in this, Authorizing thy trespas with compare, My selfe corrupting salving thy amisse, Excusing their sins more then their sins are: For to thy sensuall fault I bring in sence, Thy adverse partie is thy Advocate, And gainst my selfe a lawfull plea commence, Such civill war is in my love and hate, That I an accessar needs must be, To that sweet theefe vvhich sourely robs from me.

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Vnanimitie.

LEt me confesse that we tvvo must be twaine. Although our undevided loves are one: o shall those blots that do with me remaine, Without thy helpe, by me be borne alone. n our two loves there is but one respect, Though in our lives a seperable spight, Which though it alter not loves sole effect, Yet doth it steale sweet houres from loves delight: I may not ever-more acknowledge thee, Least my bewailed guilt should doe thee shame, Nor thou vvith publike kindnesse honour me, Vnlesse thou take that honour from thy name: But doe not so, I love thee in such sort, As thou being mine, mine is thy good report. As a decrepit father takes delight, To see his active child doe deeds of youth, So I, made lame by Fortunes dearest spight Take all my comfort of thy vvorth and truth. For whether beautie, birth, or vvealth, or vvit, Or any of these all, o all, or more ntitled in their parts, do crowned sit. make my love ingrafted to this store: So then I am not lame, poore, nor dispis'd, Whilst that this shadovv doth such substance give, That I in thy aboundance an suffic'd, And by a part of all thy glory live: Looke vvhat is best▪ that best I vvish in thee, This vvish I have, then ten times happy me.

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Loath to depart.

GOod night, good rest, ah neither be my share, She bad good night, that kept my rest away, And daft me to a cabben hangde vvith care: To descant on the doubts of my decay, Farevvell (quoth she) and come againe tomorrovv: Farevvell I could not, for I supt with sorrovv. Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile, In scorne or friendship, nill I conster vvhether: 'T may be she joyd to jeast at my exile. 'T may be againe, to make me vvander thither. Wander (a word) for shadovves like my selfe, As take the paine, but cannot plucke the pelfe. Lord hovv mine eyes throvv gazes to the East, My heart doth charge the watch, the morning rise Doth scite each moving sence from idle rest, Not daring trust the office of mine eies. While Philomela sits and ings, I sit and marke, And wish her layes vvere tuned like the Larke. For she doth vvelcome day-light vvith her ditty, And drives avvay darke dreaming night: The night so packt, I post unto my pretty, Hart hath his hope, and eies their vvished sight, Sorrow chang'd to solace, and solace mixt vvith sorrow, For vvhy, she sight, and bad me come to morrovv. Were I vvith her, the night vvould post too soone, But now are minutes added to the houres: To spite me now, each minute seemes an houre, Yet not for me, shine Sunne to succour flovvers.

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Pack night peepe day, good day of night novv borrow, Short night to night, and length thy selfe tomorrow.

A Master-peece.

MIne eye hath play'd the Painter and hath steeld, Thy beauties forme in table of my heart, My body is the frame wherein ti's held, And perspective it is best Painters Art. For through the Painter must you see his skill, To finde where your true Image pictur'd lies, Which in my bosomes shop is hanging still, That hath his windovves glazed vvith thine eyes: Now see vvhat good-turnes eyes for eyes have done, Mine eyes have dravvne thy shape, and thine for me Are vvindowes to my brest, vvhere through the Sun Delights to peepe, to gaze therein on thee Yet eyes this cunning vvant to grace their art They draw but vvhat they see, knovv not the heart.

Happinesse in content.

LEt those who are in favour vvith their stars, Of publike honour and proud titles bost, Whilst I whom fortune of such tryumph bars Vnlookt for joy in that I honour most;

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Great Princes favorites their faire leaves spread, But as the Marigold at the suns eye, And in themselves their pride lies buried, For at a frovvne they in their glory die. The painefull vvarrier famosed for vvorth, After a thousand victories once foild, Is from the booke of honour razed quite, And all the rest forgot for vvhich he toild; Then happy I that love and am beloved Where I may not remove, nor be removed.

A dutifull Message.

LOrd of my love, to vvhom in vassalage Thy merit hath my dutie strongly knit; To thee I send this written ambassage To vvitnesse dutie, not to shew my wit. Dutie so great, vvhich wit so poore as mine May make seeme bare, in vvanting words to shevv it; But that I hope some good conceit of thine In thy soules thought (all naked) will bestow it: Till whatsoever star that guides my moving, Points on me graciously with faire aspect, And puts apparrall on my tottered loving, To show me vvorthy of their svveet respect, Then may I dare to boast how I doe love thee, Till then, not show my head where thou maist prove me.

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Goe and come quickly.

HOw heavie doe I journey on the way, When what I seeke (my vveary travels end) Doth teach that ease and that repose to say, Thus farre the miles are measurde from thy friend. The beast that beares me, tired vvith my woe, Plods dlly on, to beare that vveight in me, As if by some instinct the vvretch did know His rider lov'd not speed being made from thee: The bloody spurre cannot provoke him on, That some-times anger thrusts into his hide, Which heavily he answers with a grone, More sharpe to me then spurring to his side, For that same groane doth put this in my mind, My greefe lies onward and my joy behind. Thus can my love excuse the slow offence, Of my dull bearer, vvhen from thee I speed, From where thou art, why should I hast me thence, Till I returne of posting is no neede. O vvhat excuse vvill my poore beast then find, When svvift extremitie can seeme but slow, Then should I spurre though mounted on the wind, In winged speed no motion shall I know, Then can no horse with my desire keepe pace, Therefore desire (of perfects love being made) Shall neigh no dull flesh in his fiery race, But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade, Since from thee going, he vvent vvilfull slow, Towards thee ile run, and give him leave to goe.

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Two faithfull friends.

MIne eye and heart are at a mortall warre, How to devide the conquest of thy sight, Mine eye, my heart their pictures sight would barre, My heart, mine eye the freedome of that right, My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lye, (A closet never pearst with christall eyes) But the defendant doth that plea deny, And sayes in him their faire appearance lies. To side this title is impannelled A quest of thoughts, all tennants to the heart, And by their verdict is determined The cleere eyes moyitie, and the deare hearts part. As thus mine eyes due is their outvvard part And my hearts right, their invvard love of heart. Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is tooke, And each doth good turnes now unto the other, When that mine eye is famisht for a looke, Or heart in love with sighes himselfe doth smother; With my loves picture then my eye doth feast, And to the painted banquet bids my heart: Another time mine eye is my hearts guest, And in his thoughts of love doth share a part. So either by thy picture or my love, Thy selfe avvay, are present still vvith me, For thou not farther then my thoughts canst move, And I am still vvith them, and they with thee. Or if they sleepe, thy picture in my sight Avvakes my heart, to hearts and eyes delight.

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Carelesse neglect.

HOw carefull was I vvhen I tooke my vvay, Each trifle under truest barres to thrust, That to my use it might unused stay From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust? But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are, Most vvorthy comfort, now my greatest griefe, Thou best of deerest, and mine onely care, Art left the prey of every vulgar theefe. Thee have I not lockt up in any chest, Save where thou art not, though I feele thou art, Within the gentle closure of my brest, From vvhence at pleasure thou maist come and part, And even thence thou wilt be stolne I feare, For truth prooves theevish for a prize so deare.

Stoute resolution.

AGainst that time (if ever that time come) When I shall see thee frovvne on my defects, When as thy love hath cast his utmost summe, Cald to that audite by advis'd respects, Against that time vvhen thou shalt strangely passe, And scarcely greete me vvith that sunne thine eye, When love converted from the thing it vvas Shall reasons finde of setled gravitie.

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Against that time doe I in sconce me here Within the knowledge of mine owne desart, And this my hand, against my selfe upreare, To guard the lawfull reasons on thy part, To leave poore me, thou hast the strength of lawes, Since why to love, I can alledge no cause.

A Duell.

IT was a Lordings daughter, The fairest one of three That liked of her master, as well as well might be, Till looking on an Englishman, The fairest eye could see, Her fancy fell a turning. Long was the combat doubtfull, That love with love did fight, To leave the master lovelesse, or kill the gallant Knight, To put in practise eyther, alas it was a spite Vnto the silly damsell. But one must be refused, more mickle was the paine, That nothing could be used, to turne them both to gaine, For of the two the trusty knight was Wounded with disdaine, Alas she could not helpe it. Thus art with armes contending, was victor of the day, Which by a gift of learning, did beare the maid away, Then lullaby the learned man hath got the Lady gay, For now my song is ended.

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Love-sicke.

ON a day (alacke the day) Love whose month was ever May, Spied a blossome passing faire, Playing in the wanton ayre; Through the velvet leaves the wind All unseene gan passage find, That the lover (sicke to death) Wisht himselfe the heavens breath, Ayre (quoth he) thy cheeks may blow, Ayre, would I might triumph so: But (alas) my hand hath sworne, Nere to plucke thee from thy throne, Vow (alacke) for youth unmeet, Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet, Thou for whom Iove would sweare, Iuno but an Ethiope were, And deny himselfe for Iove Turning mortall for thy Love.

Loves labour lost.

MY flocks feede not my Ewes breed not, My Rams speed not, all is amis: Love is dying, Faiths defying, Harts denying, causer of this.

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All my merry Iigges are quite forgot, All my Ladies love is lost (god wot) Where her aith was firmely fixt in love, There a nay is plac't without remove. One silly crosse, wrought all my losse, O frowning fortune cursed fickle dame, For now I see, inconstancy, More in women then in men remaine. In blacke mourne I, all feares scorne I, Love hath forlorne me living in thrall: Heart is bleeding, all helpe needing, O cruell speeding, fraughted with gall. My shep heards pipe can sound no deale, My Weathers bell rings dolefull knell, My curtaile Dogge that wont to have plaid, Plaies not at all but seemes afraid. With sighes so deepe, procures to weepe, In howling wise, to see my dolefull plight, How sighes resound through heartlesse ground Like a thousand vanquisht men in bloudie fight. Cleare wells spring not, sweet birds sing not, Greene plants bring not forth their die, Herds stands weeping, flockes all sleeping, Nimphes blacke peeping fearefully: All our pleasure knowne to us poore swaines: All our merry meetings on the plaines, All our evening sport from us is fled, All our love is lost, for love is dead, Farewell sweet love thy like nere was, For a sweet content the cause of all my woe, Poore Coridon must live alone, Other helpe for him I see that there is none.

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Wholesome counsell.

WHen as thine eye hath chose the Dame, And stalde the deare that thou shouldst strike, Let reason rule things worthy blame, As well as fancy (partly all might) Take counsell of some wiser head, Neither too young, nor yet unwed, And when thou com'st thy tale to tell, Smooth not thy tongue with filed talke, Least she some subtill practise smell, A Cripple soone can finde a halt, But plainely say thou lovst her well, And set her person forth to sale. What though her frowning browes be bent Her cloudy lookes will calme ere night, And then too late she will repent, That thus dissembled her delight. And twice desire ere it be day, That which with scorne she put away. What though she strive to try her strength, And ban and braule, and say thee nay: Her feeble force will yeeld at length. When craft hath taught her thus to say: Had women beene so strong as men In faith you had not had it then. And to her will frame all thy wayes, Spare not to spend, and chiefly there, Where thy desart may merit praise By ringing in thy Ladies eare,

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The strongest castle, tower and towne, The golden bullet beats it downe. Serve alwayes with assured trust, And in thy sute be humble true, Vnlesse thy Lady prove unjust, Prase never thou to chuse a new: When time shall serve, be thou not slacke, To proffer though she put it back. The wiles and guiles that women worke, Dissembled with an outward shew: The tricks and toyes that in them lurke, The Cock that treads them shall not know, Have you not heard it said full oft, A Womans nay doth stand for nought. Thinke women still to strive with men, To sinne and never for to Saint, There is no heaven (by holy then) When time with age shall them attaint, Were kisses all the joyes in bed, One woman would another wed. But soft enough, too much I feare, Least that my mistresse heare my song, She will not sticke to round me on th'ere, To teach my tongue to be so long: Yet will she blush, here be it said, To heare her secrets so bewraid.

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Sat fuisse.

SInne of selfe-love possesseth all mine eye, And all my soule, and all my every part; And for this sinne there is no remedy, It is so grounded inward in my heart. Me thinkes no face so gracious is as mine, No shape so true▪ no truth of such account, And for my selfe mine owne worth doe define, As I all other in all worths surmount. But when my glasse shewes me my selfe indeed Beated and chopt with tand antiquitie, Mine owne selfe love quite contrary I read Selfe, so selfe loving were iniquitie, 'Tis thee (my selfe) that for my selfe I praise, Painting my age vvith beautie of thy dayes.

A living monument.

NOt marble, no the guilded monument, Of Princes shall out-live this powerfull rime, But you shall shine more bright in these contents Then unswept stone, besmeer'd with sluttish time. When wastefull warre shall Statues overturne, And broyles roote out the worke of masonry, Nor Mars his sword, no warres quicke fire shall burne: The living record of your memory.

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Gainst death, and all oblivious emnitie Shall you pace forth, your praise shall still finde roome, Even in the eyes of all posteritie That were this world out to the ending doome. So till the judgement that your selfe arise, You live in this, and dwell in lovers eyes.

Familiaritie breeds contempt.

SO am I as the rich whose blessed key, Can bring him to his svveet uplocked treasure, The which he will not ev'ry hovver survay, For blunting the fine point of seldome pleasure, Therefore are feasts so sollemne and so rare, Since seldome comming in the long yeare set, Like stones of worth they thinly placed ar, Or captaine Ievvells in the carconet. So is the time that keepes you as my chest, Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide, To make some speciall instant speciall blest, By new unfoulding his imprison'd pride. Blessed are you whose worthinesse gives scope, Being had to tryumph, being lackt to hope.

Patiens Armatus.

IS it thy will, thy Image should keepe open My heavie eyelids to the weary night

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Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken, While shadowes like to thee doe mocke my sight▪ Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee So farre from home into my deeds to pry, To finde out shames and idle houres in me, The scope and enure of thy Iealousie? O no, thy love though much, is not so great, It is my love that keepes mine eye awake, Mine owne true love that doth my rest defeat, To play the watch-man ever for thy sake. For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake else-where, From me farre of, with others all too neare.

A Valediction.

NO longer mourne for me when I am dead, Then you shall heare the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world with vildest wormes to dwell: Nay if you read this line, remember not, The hand that writ it, for I love you so, That I in your svveet thoughts would be forgot, If thinking on me then should make you w••••, O if (I say) you looke upon this verse, When I (perhaps) compounded am with clay, Doe not so much as my poore name reh••••se▪ But let your love even with my life decay. Least the wise world should looke into your mo••••e, And mocke you with me after I am gone.

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O Least the world should taske you to recite, What merit liv'd in me that you should loue After my death (deare love) forget me quite, For you in me can nothing worthy prove. Vnlesse you would devise some vertuous lye, To doe more for me then mine owne desert, And hange more prayse upon deceased I, Then nigard truth would willingly impart: O least your true love may seeme false in this, That you for love speake well of me untrue, My name be buried where my body is, And live no more to shame nor me, nor you. For I am shamd by that which I bring forth, And so should you, to love things nothing worth. But be contented when that fell arest, Without all bayle shall carry me away, My life hath in this line some interest, Which for memoriall still with thee shall stay. When thou reviewest this, thou dost review, The very part was consecrate to thee, The earth can have but earth, which is his due, My spirit is thine the better part of me, So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life, The prey of wormes, my body being dead, The coward conquest of a wretches knife, To base of thee to be remembred. The worth of that, is that which it containes, And that is this, and this with thee remaines.

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Nil magnic Invidia.

THat thou art blam'd shall not be thy defect, For slanders marke was ever yet the faire, The ornament of beautie is suspect, A Crow that flies in heavens sweetest ayre. So thou be good, slander doth but approve, Their worth the greater being woo'd of time, For Canker vice the sweetest buds doth love, And thou present'st a pure unstayned prime. Thou hast past by the mbush of young dayes, Either not assaild, or victor being charg'd, Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise, To tye up envy, evermore inlarged, If some suspect of ill maske not thy show, Then thou alone kingdomes of hearts shouldst owe.

Love-sicke.

O How I faint when I of you doe write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the prayse thereof spends all his might, To make me tongue-tide speaking of your fame. But since your worth (wide as the Ocean is) The humble as the proudest saile doth beare, My sawsie barke (inferior farre to his) On your broad maine doth wilfully appeare.

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Your shallowe helpe will hold me up a floate, Whilst he upon your soundlesse deepe doth ride, Or (being wrackt) I am a worthlesse boat, He f tall building, and of goodly pride. Then if he thrive and I be cast away The worst was this, my love was my decay, Or I shall live your Epitaph to make, Or you survive when I in earth am rotten, From hence your memory death cannot take, Although in me each part will be forgotten. Your name from hence immortall life shall have, Though I (once gone) to all the world must dye, The earth can yeeld me but a common grave, When you intombed in mens eyes shall lie, Your monument shall be my gentle verse, Which eyes not yet created shall ore-read, And tongues to be, your being shall rehearse. When all the breathers of this world are dead, You still shall live (such vertue hath my Pen) Where breath most breaths, even in the mouths of men.

The Picture of true love.

LEt me not to the marriage of true mindes Admit impediments, love is not love Which alters when it alteration findes, Or bends with the remover to remove. O no, it is an ever fixed marke That lookes on tempests and is never shaken;

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It is the starre to every wandring barke, Whose worths unknowne, although his hight be taken. Lov's not Times foole, though rosie lips and cheeks Within his bending sickles compasse come, Love alters not with his breefe houes and weekes, But beares it out even to the edge of doome: If this be errour and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

In prayse of his Love.

I Grant thou wert not married to my Muse, And therefore mayst without attaint ore-looke The dedicated words which writers use Of their faire subject, blessing every booke. Thou art as faire in knowledge as in hew, Finding thy worth a limmit past my praise, And therefore art inforc'd to seekeanew, Some fresher stampe of the time bettering dayes. And doe so love, yet when they have devis'd, What strained touches Rhetorich can lend, Thou truly faire, wert truly simpathizde, In true plaine words, by thy true telling friend. And their grosse painting might be better u'd, Where cheekes need blood, in thee it is abus'd. I never saw that you did painting need, And therefore to your faire no painting set, I found (or thought I found) you did exceede, The barren tender of a Poet debt:

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And therefore have I slept in your report, That you your selfe being extant well might show, How farre a moderne quill doth come to short, Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow, This silence of my sinne you did impute, Which shall be most my glory being dumbe, For I impaire not beautie being mute, When others would give life, and bring a tombe. There lives more life in one of your faire eyes, Then both your Poets can in praise devise. Who is it that sayes most, which can say more, Then this rich praise, that you alone, art you, In whose confine immured is the store, Which should example where your equall grew, Leane penurie within that Pen doth dwell, That to his subject lends not some small glory, But he that writes of you if he can tell, That you are you, so dignifies his story. Let him but coppy what in you is writ, Not making worse what nature made so cleere, And such a counter-part shall same his writ, Making his still admired every where. You to your beautious blessings adde a curse, Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse. My tongue tide Muse in manners holds her still, While comments of your praise richly compil'd, Reserve their Character with golden quill, And precious phrase by all the Muses fil'd. I thinke good thoughts, whilst other write good words, And like unlettered clerke still crie Amen, To every Himne that able spirit affords, In polisht forme of well refined pen.

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Hearing you praisd, I say 'tis so, 'tis true, And to the most of praise adde something more, But that is in my thought, whoe love to you (Though words come hind-most) holds his ranke before, Then others, for the breath of words respect, Me for my dumbe thoughts, speaking in effect.

A Resignation.

WAs it the proud full saile of his great verse, Bound for the prize of (all to precious) you, That did my ripe thoughts in my braine inhearse, Making their tombe the wombe wherein they grew? Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write, Above a mortall pitch, that struck me dead? No neither he, nor his compiers by night Giving him ayde, my verse astonished. He nor that affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence, As victors of my silence cannot boast, I was not sicke of any feare from thence But when your countenance fild up his line, Then lackt I matter, that infeebled mine. Farewell thou art too deare for my possessing, And like enough thou knowst thy estimate, The Charter of thy worth gives thee releasing▪ My bonds in thee are all determinate. For how doe I hold thee but by thy granting, And for that riches where is my deserving?

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The cause of this faire guift in me is wanting, And so my pattent backe againe is seving. Thy selfe thou gav'st, thy owne worth then not knowing, Or me to whom thou av'st it, else mistking▪ So thy great guift upon misprision growing, Comes home againe, on better judgement making. Thus have I had thee as a dreame doth flatter, In sleepe a King, but waking no such matter.

Sympathizing love.

AS it fell upon a Day, In the merry Moneth of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade, Which a grove of Myrtles made, Beasts did leape, and Birds did sing, Trees did grow, and Plants did spring▪ Every thing did banish mone, Save the Nightingale alone, She (poore Bird) as all forlorne, Leand her brest up-till a thorne, And there sung the dolefuist Dittie, That to heare it was great Pittie, Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry Teru, Teru, by and by: That to heare her so complaine, Scarse I could from teares refraine: For her griefes so lovely showne, Made me thinke upon mine owne.

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Ah (thought I) thou mournst in vaine, None takes pitty on thy paine: Senslesse trees, they cannot heare thee, Ruthlesse Beares, they will not heere thee, King Padion, he is dead: All thy friends are lapt in Lead. All thy fellow Birds doe ing, Carelesse of thy sorrowing. Whilst as fickle Fortune smild, Thou and I, were both beguild, Every one that flatters thee, Is no friend in misery: Words are easie, like the wind, Faithfull friends are hard to finde: Every man will be thy friend, Whilst thou haste wherewith to spend: But if store of Crownes be scant, No man will supply thy want, If that one be prodigall, Boubtifull they will him call: And with such like flattering, Pittie but he were a King. If he be addict to vice, Quickly him they will intice▪ If to women he be bent, They have at Commandement But if Fortune once doe frowne, Then farewell his great renowne They that fawnd on him before, Vse his company no more. He that is thy friend indeede, He will helpe thee in thy neede:

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If thou sorrow, he will weepe: If thou awake, he cannot sleepe: Thus of every greefe, in heart He, with thee, doth beare a part. These are certaine signes, to know Faithfull friend, from flatt'ring foe

Arequest to his scornefull Love.

WHen thou shalt be dispos'd to set me light, And place my merit in the eye of scorne, Vpon thy side, against thy selfe Ile fight, And prove thee vertuous, though thou art forsworne: With mine owne weakenesse being best acquainted, Vpon thy part I can set downe a story Of faults conceald, wherein I am attainted: That thou in loosing me, shall win much glory: And I by this will be a gainer too, For bending all my loving thoughts on thee, The injuries that to my selfe I doe, Doing thee vantage, duble vantage me. Such is my love, to thee I so belong, That for thy right, my selfe will beare all wrong. Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault, And I will comment upon that offence, Speake of my lamene••••e, and I straight will hault: Against thy reasons making no defence. Thou canst not (love) disgrace me halfe so ill, To set a forme upon desired change,

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As Ile my selfe disgrace, knowing thy will, I will acquaintance strangle and looke strange: Be absent from thy walkes and in my tongue, Thy sweet belooved name no more shall dwell, Least I (too much prophane) should do it wrong: And haply of our old acquaintance tell. For thee, against my selfe Ile vow debate, For I must nere love him whom thou dost h•••••• Then hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now, Now while the world is bent my deeds to crosse, Ioyne with the spight of fortune▪ make me bow, And doe not drop in for an after losse: Ah doe not, when my heart hath scapt this sorrow, Come in the rereward of a conquered woe, Give not a windy night a rainie morrow, To linger out a purposd overthrow. If thou wilt leave me, doe not leave me last, When other pettie griefes have done their spight, But in the onset come, so shall I taste At first the very worst of fortunes might. And other straines of woe, which now seeme woe, Compar'd with losse of thee, will not seeme so. Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, Some in their wealth, some in their bodies force, Some in their garments though new-fangled ill: Some in their Hawkes and bounds, some in their Horse▪ And every hnmour hath his adjunct pkasure, Wherein it findes a joy above the rest, But these particulers are not my measure, All these I better in one generall best. Thy love is better then high birth to me, Richer then wealth, prouder then garments cost▪

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Of more delight then Hawkes or Horses be: And having thee, of all mens pride I box••••. Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take. All this away, and me most wretched make.

A Lovers affection though his Love prove unconstant.

BVt doe thy worst to steale thy selfe away, For tearme of life thou art assured mine, And life no longer then my love will stay, For it depends upon that love of thine. Then need I not to feare the worst of wrongs, When in the least of them my life hath end, I see, a better state to me belongs Then that, which on my humour doth depend. Thou canst not vex me with inconstant minde, Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie, Oh what a happy title doe I finde, Happy to have thy love, happy to die! But whats so blessed faire that feares no blot, Thou maist be false, and yet I know it not. So shall I live, supposing thou art true, Like a deceived husband, so loves face May still seeme love to me, though alter'd new: Thy lookes with me, thy heart in other place. For their can live no hatred in thine eye, Therefore in that I cannot know thy change, In manies lookes, the false hearts history Is writ in moods and rons and wrinckles strange.

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But heaven in thy creation did decree, That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell, What ere thy thoughts, or thy hearts workings be, Thy lookes should nothing thence, but sweetnesse tell. How like Ees apple doth thy beautie grow, If thy sweet vertue answer not thy show. They that have power to hurt, and will doe none, That doe not doe the thing▪ they most doe show, Who moving others, are themselves as stone, Vnmooved, cold▪ and to temptation slow: They rightly doe inherit heavens graces, And husband natures riches from expence, They are the Lords and owners of their faces, Others, but stewards of their excellence: The sommers flower is to the sommer sweet, Though to it selfe, it onely live and die, But if that flower with base infection meete, The basest weed out-braves his dignitie: For sweetest things turne sowrest by their deeds, Lillies that fester, smell farre worse then weeds. How sweete and lovely dost thou make the shame, Which like a canker in the fragrant Rose, Doth spot the beautie of thy budding name? Oh in what sweets doest thou thy sinnes inclose▪ That tongue that tells the story of thy dayes, (Making lascivious comments on thy sport) Cannot dispraise▪ but in a kind of praise, Naming thy name, blesses an ill report▪ Oh what a mansion have those vices got▪ Which for their habitation choose out thee, Where beauties vaile doth cover every▪ blot, And all things turnes to faire, that eyes can see!

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Take heede (deere heart) of this large priviledge, The hardest knife ill us'd doth loose his edge.

Complaint for his Loves absence.

HOw like a Winter hath my absence beene From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting yeare? What freezings have I felt, what darke daies seene? What old Decembers barenesse every where? And yet this time remov'd was sommers time, The teeming Autumne big with rich increase, Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime, Like widdowed wombes after their Lords decease: Yet this aboundant iflue seem'd to me, But hope of Orphans, and un-fathered fruite, For Sommer and his pleasures waite on thee, And thou away, the very birds are mute. Or if they sing, tis with so dull a cheere, That leaves looke pale, dreading the Winters neare. From you have I beene absent in the spring, When proud pide Aprill (drest in all his trim) Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing: That heavie Saturne laught and leapt with him, Yet not the laies of birds, nor the sweet ••••ell Of different flowers in odor and in hew, Could make me any sommers story te••••: Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew. No did I wonder at the Lillies white, Nor praise the deepe Vermillion in the Rose.

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They were but sweete, but figures of delight: Drawne after you, you patterne of all those. Yet seem'd it winter still, and you away, As with your shaddow I with these did play. The forward violet thus did I chide, Sweet theefe whence didst thou steale thy sweet that smels, If not from my loves breath, the purple pride, Which on thy soft cheeke for complexion dwells? In my loves veines thou hast too grossely died, The Lilly I condemned for thy hand, And buds of Marjerom had stolne thy haire, The Roses fearefully on thornes did stand, Our blushing shame, another white dispaire: A third nor red, nor white, had stolne of both, And to his robbry had annext thy breath, But for his theft in pride of all his growth, A vengefull canker eate him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see, But sweet, or colour it had stolne from thee.

An invocation to his Muse.

WHere art thou Muse that thou forget•••• so l••••g, To speake of that which gives thee all thy might? Spendst thou thy fury on some worthlesse song, Darkning thy power to lend base subjects light. Returne forgetfull Muse, and straight redeeme, In gentle numbers time so idely spent, Sing to the eare that doth thy laies esteeme, And give thy pen both skill and argument.

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Rise resty Muse, my loves sweet face survay, If time have any wrincle graven there, If any, be a Satire to decay, And make times spoiles dispised every where. Give my love fame, faster then time wast life, So thou prevenst his Sithe, and crooked knife. Oh truant Muse what shall be thy amends, For thy neglect of truth in beautie di'd? But truth and beautie on my love depends: So dost thou too, and therein dignifi'd: Make answer Muse, wilt thou not haply say, Truth needs no collour with his collour fixt, Beautie no pensell, beauties truth to lay: But best is best, if never intermixt. Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumbe? Excuse not silence so, for't lies in thee, To make her much out-live a gilded tombe: And to be prais'd of ages yet to be. Then doe thy office muse, I teach thee how, To make her seeme long hence, as she showes now.

Constant affection.

TO me faire love you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I eyde, Such seemes your beautie still: Three Winters cold, Have from the forrests shooke three summers pride, Three beautious springs to yellow Autumne turn'd, In processe of the seasons have I seene,

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Three Aprill perfumes in three hot Iunes burn'd, Since first I saw you fresh which yet are greeno. Ah yet doth beautie like a Dyall hand, Steale from his figure, and no place perceiv'd, So your sweete hew, which me thinkes still doth stand Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceaved. For feare of which, heare this thou age unbred, Ere you were borne was beauties summer dead. Let not my love be cal'd Idolatrie, Nor my beloved as an Idoll show, Since all alike my songs and prayses be To one, of one, still such, and ever so. Kind is my love to day, to morrow kind, Still constant in a wondrous excellence, Therefore my verse to constancie confin'de, One thing expressing, leaves out difference. Faire, kinde, and true, is all my argument, Faire, kinde and true, varrying to other words, And in this change is my invention spent, Three theames in one, which wondrous scope affords. Faire, kinde, and true, have often liv'd alone. Which three till now, never kept seate in one. When in the Chronicle of wasted time, I see discriptions of the fairest wights, And beautie making beautifull old ime, In praise of Ladies dead, and lovely Knights, Then in the blazon of sweet beauties best, Of hand, of foote, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique Pen would have exprest, Even such a beautie as you master now. So all their prayses are but prophesies Of this our time, all you prefiguring,

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And for they look'd but with divining eyes, They had not still enough your worth to sing: For we which now behold these present dayes, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

Amazement.

MY love is strengthned though more weake in seeming I love not lesse, though lesse the show appeare, That love is marchandiz'd, whose rich esteeming, The owners tongue doth publish every where. Our love was new, and then but in the spring, When I was wont to greet it with my laies, As Philomel in Summers front doth sing, And stops his pipe in growth of riper dayes: Not that the Summer is lesse pleasant now Then when her mournefull himmes did hush the night, But that wild musicke burthens every bow, And sweets growne common loose their deare delight. Therefore like her I sometime hold my tongue: Because I would not dull you with my song. Alack what povertie my Muse brings forth, That having such a skope to show her pride, The argument all bare, is of more worth, Then when it hath my added praise beside. Oh blame me not if I no more can write! Looke in your glasse and there appeares a face, That overgoes my blunt invention quite, Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace.

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Were it not sinfull then striving to mend, To marre the subject that before was well, For to no other passe my verses tend, Then of your graces and your gifts to tell. And more, much more thn in my verse can sit, Your owne glasse showes you, when you looke in it.

A Lovers excuse for his long absence.

O Never say that I was false of heart, Though absence seem'd my flame to quallifie, As easie might I from my selfe depart, As from my soule which in thy brest doth lye: That is my home of love, if I have rang'd, Like him that travels I returne againe, Iust to the time, not with the time exchang'd, So that my selfe bring water for my staine, Never beleeve though in my nature raign'd, All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, That it could so prposterously be stain'd, To leave for nothing all thy summe of good: For nothing this wide Vniverse I call, Save thou my Rose, in it thou art my all. Alas 'tis true, I have gone here and there, And made my selfe a motley to the view, Gor'd mine owne thoughts, sold cheape what is most deare, Made old offences of affections new. Most true it is, that I have lookt on truth Asconce and strangely: But by all above,

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These blenches gave my heart another youth, And worse affaies prou'd thee my best of love, Now all is done, have what shall have no end, Mine appetite I never more will grinde On newer proofe, to trie an older friend, A God in love, to whom I am confin'd. Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best, Even to thy pure and most most loving brest.

A complaint.

OFor my sake doe you wish fortune chide, The guiltie goddesse of my harmelesse deeds, That did not better for my life provide, Then publick meanes which publicke manners breeds. Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, And almost thence my nature is subdu'd To what it workes in, like the Dyers hand, Pitty me then, and wish I were renu'de, Whilst like a willing patient I will drinke, Potions of Eysell gainst my strong infection, No bitternesse that I will bitter thinke, Nor double pennance to correct correction. Pittie me then deare friend, and I assure yee, Even that your pittie is enough to cure me. Your love and pittie doth th'impression fill, Which vulgar scandall stampt upon my brow, For what care I who calls me well or ill, So you ore-greene my bad, my good alow?

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You are my All the world, and I must strive, To know my shames and prayses from your tongue, None else to me, nor I to none alive, That my steel'd sence or changes right or wrong, In so profound Abisme I throw all care Of others voyces, that my Adderssence, To cryttick and to flatterer stopped are: Marke how with my neglect I doe dispence. You are so strongly in my purpose bred▪ That all the world beside, me thinkes y'are dead.

Selfe flattery of her beautie.

SInce I left you, mine eye is in my minde, And that which governes me to goe about, Doth part his function, and is partly blind, Seemes seeing, but effectually is out: For it no forme delivers to the heart Of birds, or flower, or shape which it doth lack, Of his quick objects hath the mind no part, Nor his owne vision houlds what it doth catch: For if it see the rud'st or gentlest sight, The most sweet favour or deformedst creature, The mountaine, or the sea, the day, or night: The Crow, or Dove, it shapes them to your feature. Incapable of more repleat, with you, My most true minde thus maketh mine untrue. Or whether doth my minde being crown'd with you Drinke up the monarchs plague this flattery?

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Or whether shall I say mine eye saith true, And that your love taught it this Alcumie To make of monsters, and things indigest, Such cherubins as your sweet selfe resemble, Creating every bad a perfect best As fast as objects to his beames assemble: Oh tis the first, tis flattry in my seeing, And my great mind most kindly drinkes it up, Mine eye well knowes what with his gust is greeing, And to his pallat doth prepare the cup. If it be poison'd, tis the lesser sinne, That mine eye loves it and doth first beginne. Those lines that I b fore have writ doe lie, Even those that said I could not love you deerer, Yet then my judgement knew no reason why, My most full flae should afterwards burne clearer. But reckoning time, whose milliond accidents Creepe in twixt vowes, and change decrees of Kings, Tan sacred beautie, blunt the sharp'st intents, Divert strong minds to th'course of altring things: Alas why fearing of times tiranny, Might I not then say now I love you best, When I was certaine ore in-certaintie, Crowning the present, doubting of the rest: Love is a Babe, then might I not say so To give full growth to that which still doth grow.

Tryall of loves constancy.

ACcuse me thus, that I have scanted all, Wherein I should your great deserts repay,

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Forgot upon your dearest love to call, Whereto all bonds doe tie me day by day, That I have frequent binne with unknowne minds, And given to time your owne deare purchas'd right, That I have hoysted saile to all the winds Which should transport me farthest from your sight. Booke both my wilfulnesse and errour downe, And on just proofe surmise, accumilate, Bring me within the levell of your frowne, But shoote not at me in your wakened hate: Since my appeale sayes I did strive to proove The constancy and vertue of your love. Like as to make our appetites more keene With eager compounds we our pallat urge, As to prevent our malladies unseene, We sicken to shun sicknesse when we purge. Even so being full of your neare cloying sweetnesse, To bitter sawces did I frame my feeding; And sicke of wel-fare found a kinde of meetnesse, To be discas'd ere that there was true needing. Thus pollicie in love t'anticipate The ills that were, not grew to faults assured, And brought to medicine a healthfull▪state Which ranke of goodnesse would by ill be cured. But thence I learne and find the lesson true, Drugs poyson him that so fell sicke of you. What potions have I drunke of Syren teare Distil'd from Limbecks foule as hell within. Applying feares to hopes, and hopes to feares, Still loosing when I saw my selfe to win? What wretched errors hath my heart committed, Whilst it hath thought it selfe so blessed never?

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How have mine eyes out of their Spheares beene fitted In the distraction of this madding fever? O benefit of ill, now I finde true That better i, by evill still made better. And ruin'd love when it is built anew Growes fairer then at first, more strong, far greater. So I returne rebuke to my content, And gaine by ills thrice more then I have spent.

A good construction of his Love: unkindenesse.

THat you were once unkind befriends me now; And for that sorrow, which I then did feele, Needes must I under my transgression bow, Vnlesse my Nerves were brasse or hammered steele. For if you were by my unkindnesse shaken As I by yours, y'have past a hell of Time, And I a tyrant have no leasure taken To waigh how once I suffered in your crime. O that our night of woe might have remembred My deepest sence how ard true sorrow hits, And soone to you, as you to me then tendred The humble salve, which wounded bosomes fits! But that your trespasse now becomes a fee, Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransome me.

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Errour in opinion.

TIs better to be vile then vile esteemed. When not to be, receives reproach of being, And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemed, Not by our feeling, but by others seeing. For why should others false adulterat eyes Give salutation to my sportive blood? Or on my frailties why are railer spies; Which in their wils count bad what I thinke good? No, I am that I am, and they that levell At my abuses, reckon up their owne, I may be straight though they themselves be bevell By their rancke thoughts, my deeds must not be showne Vnlesse this generall evill they maintaine, All men are bad and in their badnesse raigne.

Vpon the receit of a Table Booke from his Mistris.

THy guift, thy tables, are within my braine Full characterd with lasting memory, Which shall above that idle ranke remaine Beyond all date even to eternitie. Or at the least, so long as braine and heart Have facultie by nature to subsist, Till each to raz'd oblivion yeeld his part Of thee, thy record never can be mist:

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That poore retention could not so much hold, Nor need I tallies thy deare love to score. Therefore to give them from me was I bold, To trust those tables that receave thee more, To keepe an adjunckt to remember thee, Were to import forgetfulnesse in me.

A Vow.

NO! Time, thou shalt not boast that I doe change, Thy pyramyds built up with newer might To me are nothing novell, nothing strange, They are but dressings of a former sight: Our dates are breefe, and therefore we admire, What thou dost foyst upon us that is old, And rather make them borne to our desire, Then thinke that we before have heard them told: Thy registers and thee I both defie, Not wondring at the present nor the past, For thy records, and what we see doth lye, Made more or lesse by thy continuall haste: This I doe vow and this shall ever be, I will be true dispight thy Sithe and thee.

Loves safetie.

IF my deare love were but the child of state, It might for fortunes bastard be unfathered,

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As subject to times love, or to times hate, Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gatherd. No it was builded far from accident, It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls Vnder the blow of thralled discontent, Whereto th'inviting time our fashion calls: It feares not policy that Heriicke, Which workes on leases of short numbred howers, But all alone stands hugely polliticke, That it nor growes with heat, nor drownes with showres. To this I witnesse call the fooles of time, Which dye for goodnesse, who have liv'd for crime.

An intreatie for her acceptance.

WEr' ought to me I bore the canopy, With my extern the outward honoring, Or layd great bases for eternitie, Which proves more short then waste or ruining? Have I not seene dwellers on forme and favor Lose all, and more by paying too much rent For compound sweet; Forgoing simple savour, Pittifull thrivors in their gazing spent. No, let me be obsequious in thy heart, And take thou my oblation, poore but free, Which is not mixt with seconds, knowes no art, But ••••tuall render, onely me for thee. Hence, thou subbornd Informer, a true soule When most impeacht, stands least in thy controule.

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Vpon her playing on the Virginalls.

HOw oft when thou thy musicke musicke playst, Vpon that blessed wood whose motion sounds With thy sweet fingers when thou gently swayst, The wiry concord that mine eare confounds, Doe I envie those Iackes that nimble leape, To kisse the tender inward of thy hand, Whilst my poore lips which should that harvest reape, At the woods bouldnesse by thee blushing stand. To be so tickled they would change their state, And situation with those dancing chips, Ore whom their fingers walke with gentle gate, Making dead wood more blest then living lips. Since sausie Iackes so happy are in this, Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kisse.

Immoderate Lust.

TH'expence of Spirit in a waste of shame I lust in action, and till action, lust Is perjurd, murdrous, blooddy full of blame, Savage, extreame, rude, cruell, not to trust, Injoyd no sooner but despised straight, Past reason hunted, and no sooner had Past reason hated as a swallowed bayt, On purpose layd to make the taker ad.

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Made in pursuit and in possession so, Had, having, and in quest, to have extreame, A blisse in proofe and proud and very woe, Before a joy proposd behind a dreame, All this the world well knowes yet none knowes well, To shun the haven that leads men to this hell.

In prayse of her beautie though black.

IN the old age black was not counted faire, Or if it were it bore not beauties name: But now is blacke beauties successive heire, And Beautie slanderd with a bastard shame, For since each hand hath put on Natures power, Fairing the foule with Arts false borrow'd face, Sweet beautie hath no name no holy bower, But is prophan'd, if not, lives in disgrace. Therefore my Mistresse eyes are Raven blacke, Her eyes so suted, and they mourners seeme, At such who not borne faite no beautie lack, Slandering Creation with a false esteeme, Yet so they mourne becomming of their woe, That every tongue sayes beautie should looke so, My Mistresse eyes are nothing like the Sunne, Currall is farre more red, then her lips red, If snow be white, why then her brests are dun: If haires be wiers, black wiers grow on her head▪ I have seene Roses, damaskt, red, and white, But no such Roses see I in her chekes,

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And in some perfumes is there more delight, Then in the breath that from my Mistresse reckes. I love to heare her speake, yet well I know, That Musicke hath a farre more pleasing sound: I grant I never saw goddesse goe, My Mistresse when shee walkes treads on the ground, And yet by heaven I thinke my love as rare, As any she beli'd with false compare. Thou art a iranous, so as thou art, As those whose beauties proudly make them cruell; For well thou know'st to my deare doting heart Thou art the fairest and most precious Iewell. Yet in good faith some say that thee behold, Thy face hath not the power to make love grone; To say they erre I dare not be so bold, Although I sweare it to my selfe alone. And to be sure that is not false I sweare A thousand grones but thinking on thy face, One on anothers necke doe witnesse beare Thy black is fairest in my judgements place. In nothing art thou blacke save in thy deeds, And thence this slander as I thinke proceeds. Thine eyes I love, and they as pittying me, Knowing thy heart torments me with disdaine, Have put on blacke, and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my paine. And truly not the morning Sun of Heaven Better becomes the gray cheekes of th'East, Nor that full starre that ushers in the Even Doth halfe that glory to the sober West As those two morning eyes become thy face: O let it then as well beseeme thy heart

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To mourne for me since mourning doth thee grace, And sute thy pittie like in every part. Then will I sweare beauty her selfe is blacke, And all they foule that thy complection lacke.

Vnkinde Abuse.

BE shrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that deepe wound it gives my friend and me; I'st not enough to torture me along, But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be. Me from my selfe thy cruell eye hath taken, And my next selfe thou harder hast ingrossed, Of him, my selfe, and thee I am forsaken, A torment thrice three-fold thus to be crossed: Prison my heart in thy steele bosomes ward, But then my friends heart let my poore heart baile, Who ere keepes me, let my heart be his garde, Thou canst not then use rigor in my saile. And yet thou wilt, for I being pent in thee, Perforce am thine, and all that is in me. So now I have confest that he is thine, And I my selfe am morgag'd to thy will, My selfe Ile forfeit, so that other mine, Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still: But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free, For thou art covetous, and he is kinde, He learned but sureti-like to write for me, Vnder that bond that him as fast doth binde.

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The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take, Thou usurer that put'st forth all to use, And sue a friend, came debtor for my sake, So him I loose through my unkinde abuse. Him have I lost, thou hast both him and me, He paies the whole, and yet I am not free.

A Love-Suite.

WHo ever hath her wish, thou hast thy will, And will too boote, and will in over-plus, More than enough am I that vexe thee still, To thy sweet will making addition thus. Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious, Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine, Shall will in others seeme right gracious, And in my will no faire acceptance shine: The sea all water, yet receives raine still, And in abundance addeth to his store, So thou being rich in Will adde to thy Will, One will of mine to make thy large will more. Let no unkinde, no faire beseechers kill, Thinke all but one, and me in that one Will. If thy soule checke thee that I come so neere, Sweare to thy blinde soule that I was thy will, And will thy soule knowes is admitted there, Thus farre for love, my Love-suite sweet fulfill. Will, will fulfill the treasure of thy love, I fill it full with wills, and my will one,

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In things of great receipt with ease we prove, Among a number one is reckon'd none. Then in the number let me passe untold, Though in thy stores account I one must be, For nothing hold me so it please thee I old, That nothing me, a some-thing sweet to thee. Make but my name thy love, and love that still, And then thou lovest me, for my name is Will.

His heart wounded by her eye.

THou blinde foole love, what dost thou to mine eyes, That they behold and see not what they see: They know what beauty is, see where it lies, Yet what the best is, take the worst to be. If eyes corrupt by over-partiall lookes, Be anchor'd in the bay where all men ride, Why of eyes falsehood hast thou forged hookes, Whereto the judgement of my heart is tide? Why should my heart thinke that a severall plot, Which my heart knowes the wide worlds common place? Or mine eyes seeing this, say this is not To put faire truth upon so foule a face, In things right true my heart and eyes have erred. And to this false plague are they now transferred. O call not me to justifie the wrong, That thy unkindnesse layes upon my heart, Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue, Vse power with power, and lay me not by Art,

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Tell me thou lov'st ese-where; but in my sight, Deare heart forbeare to glance thine eye aside, What needst thou wound with cunning when thy might Is more than my ore-prest defence can bide? Let me excuse thee, ah my love well knowes, Her prettie lookes have beene my enemies, And therefore from my face she turnes my foes, That they else-where might dart their injuries. Yet doe not so, but since I am neere slaine, Kill me out-right with lookes, and rid my paine. Be wise as thou art cruell, doe not presse My tongue-tide patience with too much disdaine: Least sorrow lend me words and words expresse, The manner of my pitty wanting paine. If I might teach thee wit better it were, Though not to love, yet love to tell me so, As testie sick-men when their deaths be neere, No newes but health from their Phisitions know. For if I should dispaire I should grow madde, And in my madnesse might speake ill of thee, Now this ill wresting world is growne so bad, Mad slanderers by madde eares beleeved be. That I may not be so, nor thou be-lide, Beare thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.

A Protestation.

IN faith I doe not love thee with mine eyes, For they in thee a thousand errors note,

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But 'tis my heart that loves what they dispise, Who in despight of view is pleasd to dote. Nor are mine eares with thy tongues tune delighted, Nor tender feeling to base touches prone, Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited To any sensuall feast with the alone: But my five wits, nor my five senses can Diswade one foolish heart from serving thee, Who leaves unswai'd the likenesse of a man, Thy proud hearts slave and vassall wretch to be: Onely my plague thus farre I count my gaine, That she that makes me sinne, avvards me paine. Love is my sinne, and my deare vertue hate, Hate of my sinne, grounded on sinfull loving, O but with mine, compare thou thine owne state, And thou shalt finde it merits not reprooving, Or if it doe, not from those lips of thine, That have prophan'd their scarlet ornaments, And seal'd false bonds of love as oft as mine, Rob'd others beds revenues of their rents. Be it lawfull I love thee, as thou lov'st those, Whom thine eyes woe as mine importune thee, Roote pitty in thy heart that when it growes, Thy pitty may deserve to pittied be. If thou dost seeke to have what thou dost hide, By selfe example mai'st thou be denide▪

An Allusion.

LOe as a carefull huswife runnes to catch. One of her feathered creatures broke away,

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Sets downe her babe and makes all swift dispatch In pursuite of the thing she would have stay: Whilst her neglected child holds her in chace, Cries to catch her, whose busie care is bent, To follow that which flies before her face▪ Not prizing her poore infants discontent; So runst thou after that which flies from thee, Whilst I thy babe chase thee a farre behind, But if thou catch thy hope turne backe to mee: And play the mothers part, kisse me, be kind. So will I pray that thou maist have thy Will, If thou turne backe and my loud crying still.

Life and death.

THose lips that Loves owne hand did make, Breath'd forth the sound that said I hate, To me that languisht for her sake: But when she saw my wofull state, Straight in her heart did mercy come, Chiding that tongue that ever sweet, Was usde in giving gentle doome: And taught it thus a new to greete: I hate she altered with an end, That follow'd it as gentle day, Doth follow night, who like a fiend From heaven to hell is flowne away. I hate, from hate away she threw, And sav'd my life saying not you.

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A Consideration of death.

POore soule, the center of my sinfull earth, My sinfull earth these rebell powers that thee aray, Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, Painting thy outward walls in costly gay? Why so large cost having so short a lease, Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? Shall wormes in heritors of this excesse, Eate up thy charge? is this thy bodies end? Then soule live thou upon thy servants losse, And let that pine to aggrivate thy store, Buy tearmes divine in selling houres of drosse: VVithin be fed, without be rich no more. So shalt thou feed on death, that feedes on men, And death once dead, ther's no more dying then.

Immoderate Passion.

MY love is as a feaver longing still, For that which longer nurseth the disease, Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, Th'uncertaine sickly appetite to please: My reason the Phisition to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept Hath left me, and I desperate now approve, Desire is death, which Phisicke did except.

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Past cure I am, now Reason is past care, And franticke madde with ever-more unrest, My thoughts and my discourse as mad mens are, At randome from the truth vainely exprest. For I have sworne thee faire, and thought thee bright, Who art as blacke as hell, as darke as night.

Loves powerfull subtilty.

O Me! what eyes hath love put in my head, Which have no correspondence with true sight, Or if they have, where is my judgement fled, That censures falsely what they see aright? If that be faire where on my false eyes dote, What means the world to say it is not so? If it be not, then love doth well denote, Loves eye is not so true as all mens: no How can it? Oh how can loves eye be true, That is so vext with watching and with teares? No marvell then though I mistake my view, The Sunne it selfe sees not, till heaven cleeres. O cunning love, with teares thou keepst me blinde, Least eyes well seeing thy foule faults should finde. Canst thou O cruell, say I love thee not, When I against my selfe with thee partake: Doe I not thinke on thee when I forgot Am of my selfe, all tyrant for thy sake? Who hateth thee, that I doe call my friend, On whom froun'st thou that I doe faune upon.

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Nay if thou lowrst on me, doe I not spend Revenge upon my selfe with present mone, What merit do I in my selfe respect, That is so proud thy service to dispise, When all my best doth worship thy defect, Commanded by the motion of thine eyes. But love hate on for now I know thy minde, Those that can see thou lov'st, and I am blinde, Oh from what power hast thou this powrefull might, With insufficiency my heart to sway, To make me give the lie to my true sight, And sweare that brightnesse doth not grace the day? Whence hast thou this becomming of things ill, That in the very refuse of thy deeds, There is such strength and warrantise of skill, That in my minde thy worst all best exceeds? Who taught thee how to make me love thee more, The more I heare and see just cause of hate, Oh though I love what others doe abhorre, With others thou should'st not abhorre my state. If thy unworthinesse rais'd love in me. More worthy I to be belov'd of thee.

Retaliation.

SO oft have I invok'd thee for my Muse, And ound such faire assistance in my verse, As every Alen Pen hath got my use, And under thee their poeie disperse.

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Thine eyes that taught the dumbe on high to sing, And heavie ignorance aloft to flie, Have added feathers to the learneds wing, And given grace a double Majestie. Yet be most proud of that which I compile, Whose influence is thine, and borne of thee, In others workes thou dost but mend the stile, And Arts with thy sweete graces graced be. But thou art all my Art, and dost advance As high as learning, my rude ignorance, Whilst I alone did call upon thy aide, My verse alone had all thy gentle grace, But now my gracious numbers are decaide, And my sicke Muse doth give another place. I grant (sweet love) thy lovely argument Deserves the travell of a worthier pen, Yet what of thee thy Poet doth invent, He robs thee of, and payes it thee againe, He lends thee vertue, and he stole that word. From thy behaviour, beautie doth he give And found it in thy theeke: he can afford No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live. Then thanke him not for that Which he doth say, Since what he owes thee, thou thy selfe dost pay.

Sunne Set.

THat time of yeare thou maist in mee behold. When yellow leaves, or none, or few doe hang

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Vpon those boughes which shake against the cold Bare ruin'd quires, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twi-lights of such day, As after Sun-set fadeth in the West, Which by and ▪by blacke night doth take away, Deaths second selfe that seales up all in rest. In me thou seest the glowing of such fire, That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death bed whereon it must expire, Consum'd with that which it was nurisht by. Tis thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong. To love that well, which thou must leave ere long. Thy glasse will shew thee how thy beauties were, Thy dyall how thy precious minutes waste, The vacant leaves thy mindes imprint will beare, And of this booke, this learning maist thou taste. The wrinckles which thy glasse will truely show, Of mouthed graves will give the memory, Thou by thy dyals shady stealth maist know, Times theevish progresse to eternity, Looke what thy memory cannot containe, Commit to these waste blacks, and thou shalt finde, Those children nurst, delivered from thy braine, To take a new acquaintance of thy minde. These offices so oft as thou wile looke. Shall profit thee, and much inrich thy booke.

A monument to Fame.

NOt mine owne feares, nor the propheticke soule, Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come,

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Can yet the lease of my true love controule Supposde as forfeit to a confin'd doome. The mortall Moone hath her eclipse indur'd And the sad Augurs mocke their owne presage, Incertainties now crowne themselves assur'd, And peace proclaimes lives of endlesse age. Now with the droppes of this most balmie time, My love lookes fresh, and death to me subscribes, Since spight of him Ile live in this poore ime, While he insults ore dull and speechlesse tribes. And thou in this shalt finde thy monument, When tyrants crests and tombs of brasse are spent. What's in the braine that inke may character, Which hath not figur'd to thee my true spirit, What's new to speake, what now to register, That may expresse my love, or thy deare merit? Nothing sweet-love, but yet like prayers divine, I must each day say ore the very same, Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine, Even as when first I hallowed thy faire name. So that eternall love in loves fresh case, Weighes not the dust and injuries of age, Nor gives to necessary wrinkle place, But makes antiquitie for aye his page, nding the first conceit of love there bred, Where time and outward forme would shew it dead.

Perjurie.

LOve is too young to know what conscience is, Yet who knowes not conscience is borne of love,

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Then gentle cheater urge not my amisse, Least guilty of my faults thy sweet selfe prove. For thou betraying me, I doe betray My nobler part to my grosse bodies treason, My soule doth tell my body that he may, Triumph in love, flesh staies no farther reason, But rising at thy name doth point out thee, As his triumphant prize, proud of this pride, He is contented thy poore drudge to be To stand in thy affaires, fall by thy side. No want of conscience hold it that I call, Her love, for whose deare love I rise and fall. In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworne, But thou art twice forsworne to me love swearing, In act thy bed-vow brooke and new faith torne, In vowing new hate after new love bearing: But why of two oathes breach doe I accuse thee, When I breake twenty: I am perjur'd most, For all my vowes are oathes but to misuse thee: And all my honest faith in thee is lost. For I have sworne deepe oathes of thy deepe kindenesse: Oathes of thy love, thy truth, thy constancie, And to enlighten thee gave eyes to blindnesse, Or made them sweare against the thing they see. For I have sworne thee faire: more perjur'd eye, To sweare against the truth so foule a lie.

The Tale of Cephalus and Procris.

BEneath Hymetus hill well cloath'd with flowers, A holy Well her soft springs gently powers,

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Where stands a Cops, in which the wood-Nymphs shrve, (No wood) it rather seemes a slender Grove. The humble shrubs and bushes hide the grasse, Here Lawrell, Rosemary, here Myrtill was. Here grew thicke Box, and Tam'rix, that excells, And made a meere confusion of sweet smels: The Triffoly, the Pine, and on this Heath Stands many a plant that feeles coole Zephirs breath. Here the young Cephalus tyr'd in the chace, Vsd his repofe and rest alone t'embrace, And where he sat, these words he would repeate. Come Ayre, sweete Ayre, come coole my heate: Come gentle Ayre, I never will forsake thee, Ile hug thee thus, and in my bosome take thee. Some double dutious Tel-tale hapt to heare this, And to his jealous wife doth straight-way beare this. Which Procris hearing, and with all the Name Of Avre, (sweete Ayre) which he did oft proclaime, She stands confounded, and amaz'd with griefe, Be giving this fond tale too sound beleefe. And lookes as doe the trees by Winter nipt, Whom Frost and cold, of fruit and leaves halfe stript, She bends like coveile, when too ranke it growes, Or when the ripe fruits clog the Quince▪ tree bowes: But when she comes t'her selfe, she teares▪ Her Garments, her eyes, her cheekes, and haires, And then she starts, and to her feete applies her, Then to the Woods (starke Wood) in rage she hies her, Approaching some-what neare her servants they By her appointment in a Vally stay, Whilst she alone with creeping paces steales To take the strumpet whom her Lord conceale.

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What mean'st thou Procris in these Groves to hide thee? What rage of love doth to this madnesse guide thee? Thou hop'st the Ayre he cals, in all her braverie Will straight approach, and thou shalt see their knavery? And now againe it Irkes her to be there, For such a killing sight her heart will teare. No truce can with her troubled thoughts dispence, She would not now be there, nor yet be thence: Behold the place: her jealous minde foretels, Here doe they Vse to meete, and no where else: The Grasse is laid, and see their true impression▪ Even here they lay: I, here was their transgression. A bodies print she saw, it was his seate, Which makes her faint heart gainst her ribs to beate, Phoebas the lofty Easterne Hill had scald, And all moist vapours from the earth exhald: Now in his noone-ride point he shineth bright, It was the middle houre, twixt noone and night: Behold young Cephalus drawes to the place, And with the Fountaine water sprinkes his face, Procris is hid, upon the grasse he lies, And come sweete Zephir, Come sweet Ayre he cryes. She sees her error now from where he stood, Her mind returnes to her, and her fresh blood, Among the Shrubs and Briers she moves and rustles, And the injurious boughes away she justels, Intending, as he lay there to repose him, Nimbly to run, and in her armes inclose him: He quickly casts his eye upon the bush, Thinking therein some savage beast did rush, His bow he bends, and a keene shaft he drawes, Vnhappy man, what dost thou? Stay and pause.

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It is no Bruit beast thou wouldst reave of life; (Oh man unhappy) thou hast slaine thy wife? Oh Heaven she cries, Oh helpe me I am slaine, Still doth thy Arrow in my wound remaine, Yet though by timelesse Fate my bones here lie, It glads me most, that I, no Cuck-queane die: Her breath (thus in the Armes she most affected,) She breaths into the Ayre (before suspected The whilst he lifts her body from the ground, And with his teares doth wash her bleeding wound.

Cupids Treacherie.

CVpid laid by his brand and fell asleepe, A maide of Dyan this advantage found, And his love-kindling fire did quickly steepe In a cold vallie-fountaine of that ground: Which borrow'd from this holy fire of love, A datelesse lively heate still to endure, And grew a seething bath which yet men prove, Against strange malladies a soveraigne cure: But at my mistres eye loves brand new fired, Thy boy for triall needes would touch my breast, I sicke with all the helpe of bath desired, And thether hyed a sad distempered guest. But found no cure, the bath for my helpe lies, Where Cupid ot new fire; my mistres eyes. The little Love-God lying once a sleepe, Laid by his side his heart in flaming brand,

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Whilst many Nymphes that vow'd chast life to keepe, Came tripping by, but in her maiden hand, The fairest votay tooke up that fire, Which many Legions of true hearts had warm'd, And so the Generall of hot desire, Was sleeping by a Virgin hand disarm'd. This brand she quencled in a coole Well by, Which from loves fire tooke heat perpetuall, Growing a bath and healthfull remedy, For men diseas'd, but I my Mistresse thrall, Came there for cure, and this by that I prove, Loves fire heates water, water cooles not love.

That Menelaus was cause of his owne wrongs.

WHen Menelaus from his house is gone, Poore Hellen is affraid to lie alone; And to allay these feares (lodg'd in her breast) In her warme bosome she receives her guest: What madnesse was this? Menelaus, say Thou art abroad whilst in thy house doth stay Vnder the selfe-same roofe, thy Guest, and Love? Mad-man unto the Hawke thou trusts the Dove. And who but such a Gull, would give to keepe Vnto the Mountaine Woofe full folds of Sheepe. Hellen is blamelesse, so is Paris too, And did what thou, or I my selfe would doe.

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The fault is thine, I tell thee to thy face, By limiting these Lovers, Time and Place. From thee the seedes of all thy wrongs are growne, Whose Counsels have they followed, but thine owne? (Alacke) what should they doe? Abroad thou art, At home thou leavest thy Guest to play thy part: To lie alone, the (poore Queene is affraid, In the next roome an Amorous stranger staid. Her armes are ope to embrace him, he falls in, And Paris I acquit thee of the sinne.

And in another place somewhat resembling this.

Orestes liked, but not loved deerely Hermione, till he had lost her clearely: Sad Menelaus, why dost thou lament Thy late mishap? I prethee be content: Thou knowest the amorous Hellen faire and sweet, And yet without her didst thou saile to Creet, And thou wast blithe and merry all the way, But when thou saw'st she was the Trojans prey, Then wast thou mad for her, and for thy life, Thou canst not now one minute want thy wife. So stout Achilles, when his lovely Bride Brisei, was dispos'd to great Atride. Nor was he vainely mov'd: Atrides too Offer'd no morethan he of force must doe: I should have done as much, to set her free, Yet I (heaven knowes) am not so wise as he.

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Vulcan was Iupiters Smith, an excellent workemn, on whom the Poets father many rare workes, among which, I fid this one.

Mars and Venus.

THis Tale is blaz'd through heaven, how once unware Venus and Mars were tooke in Vulcans snare: The god of Warre doth in his brow discover, The perfect and true patterne of a Lover: Nor could the Goddesse Venus be so cruell To deny Mars (soft kindnesse is a Iewell In any woman, and becomes her well) In this the Queene of love doth most excell: (Oh heaven) how often have they mockt and floured The Smiths polt-foote (whilst nothing he misdoubted) Made Iests of him and his begrimed trade, And his smoog'd visage, blacke with Cole-dust made: Mars, tickled with loud laughter, when he saw Venus like Vulcan limpe, to halt and draw One foot behinde another, with sweet grace To counterfeit his lame uneven pace. Their meetings first the Lovers hide with feare, From every jealous eye, and captious eare. The God of Warre, and Loves lacivious dame, In publike view were full of bashfull shame; But the Sunne spies, how this sweet paire agree, (Oh what bright Phoebus, can be hid from thee?) The Sunne both sees and blabs the sight forthwith▪ And in all post he speeds to ell the Smith: (Oh Sunne) what bad examples dost thou show?

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What thou in secret seest must all men know? For silence, aske a bribe from her faire treasure, Shee'le grant thee that shall make thee swell with pleasure. The god whose face is smoog'd with smoke and fire, Placeth about their bed a net of Wiar, So quaintly made, that it deceives the eye Streight (as he eignes) to Lemnos he must hi? The Lovers meete, where he the traine hath set, And both lie fast catcht in a wiery net: He calls the gods, the Lovers naked sprall And cannot rise, the Queene of Love shewes all. Mars chafes, and Venus weepes, neither can flinch, Grappled they lie, in vaine they kicke and winch: Their legges are one within another tide, Their hands so fast that they can nothing hide: Amongst these high Spectators, one by chance That saw them naked in this pitfall dance: Thus to himselfe said: If it tedious be Good god of Warre, bestow thy place on me.

The History how the Mynotaure was begot.

IDa of Caedars, and tall Trees stand full, Where fed the glory of the Heard (a Bull Snow-white) save twixt his hornes one spot there grew, Save that one staine, he was of milky liew. This faire▪ Steare did the Heyfers of the Groves, Desire to beare as Prince of all the Droves. But most Pasiphae with adulterous breath,

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Envies the wanton Heyfers to the death. Tis said, that for this Bull the doting lasse, Did use to crp young boughes, and mow fresh grasse, Nor was the Amorous Cretan Queene a feard To grow a kinde Companion to the Heard: Thus through the Champion she is madly borne And a wilde Bull, to Mynos gives the horne, Tis not for bravery he can love or loath thee, Then why Pasiphae dost thou richly cloth thee? Why shouldst thou thus thy face and lookes prepare? What makest thou with thy glasse ordering thy haire? Vnlesse thy glasse could make thee seeme a Cow, But how can hornes grow on that tender brow? If Mynos please thee, no Adulterer seke thee, Or if thy husband Mynos doe not like thee, But thy lascivious thoughts are still increas'd, Deceive him with a man, not with a beast: Thus by the Queene the wilde Woods are frequented, And leaving the Kings bed, she is contented To use the Groves, borne by the rage of minde, Even as a ship with a full Easterne winde: Some of these Strumpet-Heyfers the Queene slew, Her smoaking Altars their warme bloods imbrew, Whilst by the sacrificing Priest she stands, And gripes their trembling entrailes in her hands; At length, the Captaine of the Heard beguil'd, With a Cowes skin, by curious Art compil'd, The longing Queene obtaines her full desire, And in her infants birth bewraies the Sire.

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This Mynotaurē, when hee came to growth, was incloased in the Laborinth, which was made by the curious Arts-master Dedalus, whose Tale likewise we thus pursue.

WHen Dedalus the laborinth had built, In which t'include the Queene Pasiphaes guilt, And that the time was now expired full, To inclose the Mynotaure halfe man, halfe Bul: Kneeling he saies, Iust Mynos end my mones And let my Native soile intombe my bones: Or if dread Soveraigne I deserve no grace, Looke with a pitious eye on my sonnes face. And grant me leave from whence we are exild, Or pitty me, if you deny my child: This and much more he speakes, but all in vaine, The King, both Sonne and Father will detaine, Which he perceiving sayes: Now, now, tis fit, To give the world cause to admire my wit, Both Land and Sea, are watcht by day and night, Nor Land nor Sea lies open to our flight Onely ••••'e Ayre remaines, then let us trie To cut a passage through the Ayre and fly, Iove bee aspicious to my enterprise, I covet not to mount above the skies: But make this refuge, since I can prepare No meanes to flie my Lord but through the ayre, Make me immortall, bring me to the brim Of the blacke Stigia Water, Styx Ile swim: Oh humane wit, thou canst invent much ill?

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Thou searchest strange Arts, who would thinke by skill, A heavie man, like a light bird should stray, And through the empty Heavens finde a way. He placeth in just order all his Quils, Whose bottomes with resolved waxe he fills. Then binds them with a line, and being fast tide, He placeth them like Oares on either side, The tender Lad the downy Feathers blew, And what his Father meant, he nothing knew: The waxe he fastned, with the strings he plaide Not thinking for his shoulders they were made, To whom his Father spake (and then lookt pale) With these swift Ships, we to our Land must saile▪ All passages doth cruell Mynos stop, Onely the empty Ayre he still leaves ope. That way must we; the Land and the rough deepe Doth Mynos barre, the ayre he cannot keepe: But in thy way beware thou set no eye On the signe Virgo, nor Boees hye: Looke not the blacke Orio in the face That shakes his Sword, but just with me keepe pace▪ Thy wings are now in fastning, fastning, follow me, I will before thee fly as thou shalt see, Thy Father mount, or stoope, so I aread thee, Make me thy▪ Guard, and safely I will lead thee: If we should soare to neere great Phoebus seate, The melting Waxe will not endure the heate, Or if we flie too neere the Humid Seas, Our moystened wings we cannot shake with ease. Fly betweene both, and with the gusts that rise, Let thy light body saile amidst the skies, And ever as his little sonne he charmes,

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He fits the feathers to his tender Armes: And shewes him how to move his body light, As Birds first teach their little young ones flight▪ By this he calls to Counsell all his wits, And his owne wings unto his shoulders fits, Being about to rise, he fearefull quakes, And in this new way his faint body shakes: First ere he tooke his flight, he kis'd his sonne, Whilst by his cheekes the brinish waters runne: There was a Hillocke not so towring tall As lofty Mountaines be, not yet so small To be with Valleyes even, and yet a hill, From this thus both attempt their uncouth skill: The Father moves his wings, and with respect His eyes upon his wandring sonne reflect: They beare a spacious course, and the apt boy Fearelesse of harme, in his new tract doth joy, And flies more boldly: Now upon them lookes The Fishermen, that angle in the brookes, And with their eyes cast upward, frighted stand, By this is Saos Isle on their lift hand, Vpon the right Lehiths they forsake, As••••ple and the Fishie Lake. Shady Pachime full of Woods and Groves. When the rash youth too bold in ventring, roves; Looseth his guide, and takes his flight so high That the soft Waxe against the Sunne doth frie, And the Cords slip that kept the Feathers fast, So that his Armes have power upon no blast: He fearefully from the high clouds lookes downe, Vpon the lower heavens, whose cur'd waves frowne At his ambitious height, and from the skies

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He see blacke night and death before his eyes, Still melts the waxe, his naked armes he shakes, And thinking to catch hold, no hold hee takes: But now the naked Lad downe headlong falls, And by the way, he Father, Father calls: Helpe Father helpe, I die, and as he speakes, A violent surge his course of language breakes. Th'unhappy Father, but no Father now, Cries out aloud, Sonne Icarus where art thou? Where art thou Icarus, where dost thou flie? Icarus where art? When loe he may espie The Feathers swim, aloud he doth exclaime, The earth his bones, the Sea still beares his name.

Achilles his concealement of his Sex in the Court of Lycomedes.

NOw from another World doth saile with joy, A welcome daughter to the King of Troy, The whilst the Grcians are already come, (Mov'd with that generall wrong 'gainst Islium:) Achilles in a Smocke, his Sex doth smother, And laies the blame upon his carefull mother, What mak'st thou great Achilles, teazing Wooll▪ When Pallas in a Helme should claspe thy Scul? What doth these fingers with fine threds of gold? Which were more fit a Warlike Shield to hold. Why should that right hand, Rocke or Tow containe,

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By which the Trojan Hector must be slaine? Cast off thy loose vailes, and thy Armour take, And in thy hand the Speare of Pellas shake. Thus Lady-like he with a Lady lay, Till what he was, must her belly bewray, Yet was she forc't (so should we all beleeve) Not to be forc't so▪ now her heart would grieve: When he should rise from her, still would she crie▪ (For he had arm'd him, and his Rocke laid by) And with a ••••ft voyce spake: Achilles stay, It is too soone to rise, lie downe I pray, And then the man that forc't her, she would kisse, What force (Delade••••a) call you this?

A Lovers Complaint.

FRom off a hill whose concave wombe reworded, A plaintfull story from a sistring vale My spirits t'attend this double voyce accorded, And downe I laid to list the sad tun'd tale, Ere long espied a fickle maide full pale, Tearing of Papers, breaking rings a twaine, Storming her world with sorrowes, winde and raine, Vpon her head a plated hive of straw, Which fortified her visage from the Sunne, Whereon the thought might thinke sometime it saw The carkas of a beauty spent and done, Time had not sit••••d all that youth begun, Nor youth all quit, but spight of heavens fell rage,

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Some beauty peept, through lettice of ear'd age. Oft did she heave her Napkin to her eyne, Which on it had conceited characters: Laundring the silken figures in the brine, That seasoned woe had pelleted in teares, And often reading what contents it beares: As of en shriking undistingusht woe, In clamours of all size both high and low, Sometimes her leveld eyes their carriage ride, As they did battry to these spheares intend: Sometime diverted their poore balls are tide, To th'orbed earth; sometimes they doe extend, Their view right on, anon their gazes lend, To every place at once and no where fixt, The minde and sight distractedly commixt. Her haire nor loose nor ti'd in formall pla, Proclaim'd in her a carelesse hand of pride; For some unuck'd descended her shev'd hat, Hanging her pale and pined cheecke beside, Some in her threeden fillet still did bide, And true to bondage would not breake from thence, Though slackly braided in loose negligence. A thousand favours from a maund she drew, Of amber, christall, and of bedded I••••, Which one by one she in a river threw, Vpon whose weeping margent she was set, Like usury applying wet to wet, Or Monarches hands that lets not bounty fall, Where want cries some; but where excesse begs all. Of folded scheduls had she many aone, Which she perus'd, sigh'd, ore and gave the flud, Crackt many a ring of Posied gold and bone,

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Bidding them finde their Sepulchers in mud, Found yet moe letters sadly pen'd in blood, With sleided silke, feate and affectedly Enswath'd and seal'd to curious secrecic. These often bath'd she in her fluxive eyes, And often kis'd, and often gave to teare, Cried, O false blood, thou register of lies, What unapproved witnesse dost him beare! Inke would have seem'd more blacke and damned here! This said in top of rage the lines she rents, Bigge discontent, so breaking their contents. A reverend man that graz'd his cattell nie, Sometime a blusterer that the ruffle knew, Of Court, of Cittie, and had let goe by, The swiftest houres observed as they flew, Towards this afflicted fancy fastly drew: And priviledg'd by age, desires to know, In briefe, the grounds and motives of her woe. So slides he downe upon his grayned bat; And comely distent its he by her side, When he againe desires her, being sat, Her grievance with his hearing to devide: If that from him there may be ought applied, Which may her suffering extasie asswage, Tis promis'd in the charitie of age. Father she saies, though in me you behold The enjurie of many a blasting houre; Let it not tell your judgement I am old, Not age, but sorrow, over me hath power, I might as yet have beene a spreading flower, Fresh to my selfe, if I had selfe applied Love to my selfe, and to no Love beside.

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But woe is me, too earely I attended, A youthfull suit it was to gaine my grace; O one by natures outwards so commended, That maidens eyes stucke over all his face, Love lackt a dwelling, and made him her place, And when in his faire parts she did abide, She was new lodg'd and newly Deified. His browny lockes did hang in crooked curles. And every light occasion of the winde Vpon his lippes their silken parcels hurles, Whats sweet to▪doe, to doe will aptly finde, Each eye that saw him did inchant the minde: For on his visage was in little drawne, What largenesse thinkes in Paradise was sawne. Small shew of man was yet upon his chinne, His Phaenix downe began but to appeare Like unshorne velvet, on that termelesse skinne, Whose bare out-brag'd the web it seem'd to weare. Yet shewed his visage by that cost more deare, And nice affections wavering stood in doubt If best were as it was, or best without. His qualities were beautious as his forme, For maiden tongu'd he was and thereof free; Yet if men mov'd him, was he such a storme, As of twixt May and Aprill is to see, When windes breath sweet, unruly though they be. His rudenesse so with his authoriz'd youth, Did livery falsenesse in a pride of truth. Well could he ride, and often men would say That horse his mettall from his rider takes; Proud of subjection, noble by the sway, What rounds, what bounds, what course, what stop he makes And controversie hence a question takes,

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Whether the horse by him became his deed, Or he his mannag'd, by'th well-doing Steede. But quickly on this side the verdict went, His reall habitude gave life and grace To appertanings and to ornament, Accomplisht in himselfe not in his case: All aids themselves made fairer by their place, Can for additions, yet their purpos'd trimme Peec'd not his grace but were all grac'd by him. So on the tip of his subduing tongue All kinde of arguments and questions deepe, All replication prompt, and reason strong For his advantage still did weke and sleepe, To make the weeper laugh, the laughter weepe: He had the dialect and different skill, Catching all passions in his craft of will, That he did in the generall bosome raigne Of young, of old, and sexes both inchanred, To dwell with him in thoughts, or to remaine In personall duty, following where he haunted, Consent's bewitcht, ere he desire have granted, And dialogu'd for him what he would say, Askt their owne wills and made their wills obey. Many there were that did his picture get To serve their eyes and in it put their minde, Like fooks that in th' imaginat on set The goodly objects which abroad they find Of lands and mansions, theirs in thought assign'd, And labouring in moe pleasures to bestow them, Then the true gouty Land-lord which doth owe them. So many have that never toucht his hand Sweetly suppos'd them mistresse of his hear:

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My wofull selfe that did in freedome stand, And was my owne fee simple not (in part) What with his art in youth and youth in art Threw my affections in his charmed power, Reserv'd the stalke and gave him all my flower. Yet did I not as some my equalls did Demand of him, nor being desired yeelded, Finding my selfe in honour so forbid, With safest distance I my honour sheelded, Experience for me many bulwarkes builded Of proofes new bleeding which remain'd he foile Of this false Iewell, and his amorous spoile. But ah who ever shune'd by precedent, The destin'd ill she must her selfe assay, Or forc'd examples gainst her owne content, To put the by-past perills in her way? Counsaile may stop a while what will not stay: For when we rage, advice is often seene By blunting us to make our wits more keene. Nor gives it satisfaction to our blood, That wee must curbe it upon others proofe, To be forbid the sweets that seemes so good, For feare of harmes that preach in our behoofe; O appetite from judgement stand aloofe! The one a pallat hath that needs will taste, Though reason weepe and cry it is thy last. For further I could say this mans untrue, And knew the patternes of his foule beguiling, Heard where his plants in others Orchards grew, Saw how deceits wre gilded in his smiling, Knew vowes, were ever brokers to defiling, Thought Characters and words meerely but art,

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And bastards of his foule adulterate heart. And long upon these termes I held my Citty, Till thus he gan▪ bsi ge me: Gentle maide, Have of my suffering youth some feeling pitty, And be not of my holy vowes afraid, Thats to yee sworne to none was ever said, For feasts of love I have beene call'd unto Till now, did nre invite nor never vow, All my offences that abroad you see Are errors of the blood none of the minde: Love made them not, with acture they may be, VVhere neither party is nor true nor kinde, They sought their shame that so their shame did finde; And so much lesse of shame in me remaines, By how much of me their reproach containes. Among the many that mine eyes have seene, Not one whose lame my heart so much as warmed, Or my affection put toth' smallest teene, Or any of my leasures ever Charmed, Harme have I done to them but nere was harm'd: Kept hearts in liveries, but mine owne was free, And raign'd commanding in his Monarchy. Looke here what tributes wounded fancies sent me, Of palid pearles, and rubies red as blood: Figuring that they their passions likewise lent me Of griefe and blushes, aptly understood In bloodlesse white, and the encrimso'd mood, Effects of terror and deare modesty, Encampt in hearts but fighting outwardly. And loe behold these talents of their haire, VVith twisted m••••tle amorously empleach'd, I have receiv'd from many a severall faire,

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Their kinde acceptance, weepingly beseech'd, With th'annexions of faire gems inrich'd, And deepe brain'd sonnets that did amplifie, Eeach stones deare Nature, worth and quality▪ The Diamond? why, 'twas beautifull and hard, Whereto his invi'd properties did tend, The deepe greene Emrald, in whose fresh regard, Weake sights their sickly radience doe amend. The heaven hew'd Saphyr and th Opall blend, With objects manifold; each severall stone, With wit well blazon'd, smil'd, or made some man. Loe all these trophies of affections hot, Of pensiv'd and subdu'd desires the tender, Nature hath charg'd me that I hoor'd them not, But yeeld them up where I my selfe must render: That is to you my origin and ender: For these of force must your oblations be, Since I their Altar, you en••••trone me. Oh then advance (of yours) that phraselesse hand, Whose white weighes downe the airy scale of praise, Take all these similies to your owne command, Hollowed with sighes that burning lungs did raise: What me your minister? for you obayes, Workes under you, and to your audit comes, Their distract parcells, incombined summes. Loe this device was sent me from a Nun, Or Sister sanctified of holiest note, Which late her noble suit in court did shun, Whose rarest havings made the blossomes dote, For she was sought by spirits of richest cote, But kept cold distance, and did thence remove, To spend her living in eternall love.

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But oh my sweet What labour ist to leave, The thing we have not, mastring what not strives, Playing the Pla••••e which did no forme receive, Playing patient sports in unconstrain'd gives, She that her fa••••e so to her selfe contrives, The scarres of attell scapeth by the flight, And makes her▪ absence valiant, not her might, Oh pardon me in that my boast is true, The accident which brought me to her eye, Vpon the oent did her force subdue, And now she would the caged cloister flie: Religious love put out Religions eye: Not to be temped would she be inur'd, And now to tempt all libertie procur'd. How mighty then you are, Oh heare me tell, The broken bosomes that to me belong, Have emptied all their fountaines in my well: And mine I powre your Ocean all among: I strong o're them, and you o're me being strong, Must for your victorie us all congest, As compound love to physicke your cold brest. My parts had power to charme a sacred Sunne, Who disciplin'd I dieted in grace, Beleev'd her eyes, when they t'assaile begun, All vowes and consecrations giving place: O most potentiall love, vow, bond, nor space, In thee hath neither sting, knot, nor confine For thou art all, and all things else are thine. When thou impressest, what are precepts worth▪ Of stale example? when thou wilt inflame, How coldly those impediments stand forth, Of wealth, of filiall feae, law, kindred, fame,

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Loves armes are peace, 'gainst rule, 'gainst sence, 'gainst shame, And sweetens in the suffring pang it beares, The Alloes of all forces, shockes and feares. Now all these hearts that doe on mine depend, Feeling it breake, with bleeding groanes they pine, And supplicant their sighes to you extend, To leave the batterie that you make 'gainst mine, Lending soft audience, to my sweet designe, And credent soule, to that strong bonded oath▪ That shall preferre and undertake my troth. This said, his waterie eyes he did dismount, Whose sightes till then were eavel'd on my face, Each cheeke a river running from a fount, With brinish currant downe-ward flowed apace: Oh how the channell to the streame gave grace! Who glaz'd with Christall gate the glowing Roses, That flame through water which they hw incloses. Oh father, what a hell of witch-craft lies, In the small orbe of one perticular teare? But with the inundation of the eyes: What rocky heart to water will not weare? What breast so cold that is not warmed here, Or cleft effect, cold modesty, hot wrath▪ Both fire from hence, and chill extincture hath▪ For loe his passion but an art of craft, Even there resolv'd my reason into teares, There my white stole of chastire I daft, Shooke of my sober guards, and civill feares, Appeare to him, as he to me appeares: All melting, though our droppes this difference bore, His poison'd me, and mine did him restore. In him a plenitude of subtill matter,

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Applied to Cautles, all strange formes receives, Of burning blushes, or of weeping water, Or sounding palenesse, and he takes and leaves, In eithers aptnesse as it best deceives: To blush at speeches ranke, to weepe at woes, Or to turne white and sound at tragicke showes▪ That not a heart which in his levell came, Could scape the haile of his all hurting aime, Shewing aie Nature is both kinde and tame: And vail'd in them did winne whom he would maime, Against the thing he sought he would exclaime, When he most burnt in heart-wish'd luxurie, He preach'd pure maide, and prais'd cold chastitie. Thus meerely with the garment of a grace, The naked and concealed fiend he cover'd, That th'unexperient gave the tempter▪ place, Which like a Cherubin above them hover'd, Who young and simple would not be so lover'd. Aye me I fell, and yet doe question make, What I should doe againe for such a sake. Oh that infected moysture of his eye, O that false fire which in his cheeke so glow'd: Oh that forc'd thunder from his he art did flye, O that sad breath his spungie lungs bestowed, O all that borrowed motion seeming owed, Would yet againe betray the fore-betrai'd, And new pervert a reconciled Maide.

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The amorous Epistle of Paris to Hellen.

HEalth unto Laedaes daughter Priams sonne, Sends in these lines, whose health cannot be won, But by your gift, in whose power it may lie, To make me whole or sicke; to live or die: Shall I then speake? or doth my flame appeare, Plaine without Index? Oh, tis that I feare: My Love without discovering smile takes place, And more than I could wish shines in my face. When I could rather in my thoughts desire, To hide the smoake, till time display the fire: Time that can make the fire of Love shine cleare, Vntroubled with the misty smoake of feare: But I dissemble it, for who I pray, Can fire conceale, that will it selfe betray? Yet if you looke, I should affirme that plaine In words, which in my countenance I maintaine: I burne, I burne, my faults I have confess'd, My words beare witnesse how my lookes transgress'd: Oh pardon me that have confess'd my error, Cast not upon my lines a looke of terror, But as your beauty is beyond compare, Suite unto that your lookes, (oh you most faire,) That you my letter have received by this The supposition glads me, and I wish, By hope incourag'd, hope that makes me strong, You will receive me in some sort ere long.

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I aske no more than what the Queene of beauty Hath promis'd me, for you are mine by dutie. By her I claime you, you for me were made, And she it was my journey did perswade: Nor Lady thinke your beauty vainely sought, I by divine instinct was hether brought, And to this enterprize the heavenly powers, Have given consent, the gods proclaime me your; I aime at wonders, for I covet you, Yet pardon me, I aske but whats my due: Venus her selfe my journey hither led, And gives you freely to my promis'd bed. Vnder her safe conduct the seas I past, Till I arriv'd upon these coasts at last: Shipping my selfe from▪ the Sygean shore, Whence unto these Confines my course I bore: She made the Surges gentle, the windes faire, Nor marvell whence these calmes proceeded are. Needs must she power upon the salt-Seales have, That was sea-borne, created from a wave. Stil may she stand in her ability, And as she made the seas with much facility, To be through sail'd, so may she calme my heate, And beare my thoughts to their desired seat: My flames I found not Here, no, I protest▪ I brought them with me closed in my breast▪ My selfe transported them without Attorney, Love was the Motive to my tedious journey. Not blustring Winter when he triumphe'd most, Nor any error drove me to this Coast▪ Not led by fortune where the rough winds please, Nor Marchant▪like forgaine crost I the Seas:

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Fulnesse of wealth in all my Fleete I see, I am rich in all things, save in wanting thee▪ No spoile of petty Nations my Ship seekes, Nor Land I as a Spie among the Greekes, What neede we? See of all things we have store. Compar'd with Troy (alas your Greece is poore. For thee I come, thy fame hath thus farre driven me, Whom golden Venus hath by promise given me; I wish'd thee ere I knew thee, long agoe, Before these eyes dwelt on this glorious show: I saw thee in my thoughts, know beautious Dame, I first beheld you with the eyes of fame, Nor marvell Lady I was stroke so farre, Thus Darts or Arrowes sent from Bowes of ware Wound a great distance off; so was I hit With a deepe smarting wound that ranckles yet, For so it pleas'd the Fates, whom least you blame, Ile tell a true Tale to confirme the same: When in my Mothers wombe full ripe I lay, Ready the first houre to behold the day, And she at point to be delivered straight, And to unlade her of her Royall freight, My Birth-houre was delaid, and that sad night A fearefull vision did the Queene affright▪ In a sonnes stead to please the aged Sire, She dreampt she had brought forth a Brand of fire, Frighted she rises, and to Priam goes▪ To the old King this ominous dreame she showes: He to the Priest, the Priest doth this returne, That the child borne shall stately Islium burne: Better then he was ware the Prophet guest, For loe a kindled Brand-flames in the my breast,

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To prevent Fate a Peasant, I was held, Till my faire shape all other Swaines▪ excel'd, And gave the doubtfull world assurance good, Your Paris was deriv'd from royall blood. Amid the Idean Fields there is a place, Remote, full of high trees, which hide the face, Of the greene mantled Earth, wherein thicke rowes, The Oake, the Ele, the Pine, the Pitch-tree growes: Here never yet did browze the wanton Ewe, Nor from this plot the slow Oxe licke the dew; The savage Goate that feeds among the Rockes, Hath not graz'd here, nor any of their Flockes. Hence the Dardanian walls I might espie, The lofty Towers of Islium reared hie; Hence I the seas might from the firme land see, Which to behold, I leant me to a Tree: Beleeve me, for I speake but what is true, Downe from the skirt with feathered pynions flew, The Nephew to great Atlas, and doth stand, With golden Caducens in his hand: This as the gods to me thought good to show, I hold it good that you the same should know. Three Goddesses behind young Hermes moye, Great Iuno, Pallas, and the Queene of Love; Who as in pompe and pride of gate they passe, Scarse with their weight they bend the toppes of grasse: Amaz'd I start, and endlong stands my haire, When Mayus Sonne thus sayes, abandon feare; Thou courteous Swaine, that to these groves repairest, And freely judge which of thse three is fairest: And least I should these curious sentence shun, He tels me by loves sentence all is done.

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And to be Iudge I no way can eschue, This having said, up through the Ayre he flew: I straight tooke Heart a-grace, and grew more bold, And there their beauties one by one behold. Why am I made the Iudge to give this doome? Methinkes all three are worthy to o're-come: To injure two such Beauties, what tongue dare? Or preferre one where they be all so faire. Now this seemes fairest, now againe that other, Now would I speake, and now my thoughts I smother. And yet at leangth the praise of one most sounded, And from that one my present Love is grounded: The Goddesses out of their earnest care, And pride of beautie to beheld most faire, Seeke with large Armes, and gifts of wondrous price, To their owne thoughts my censure to enice: Iuno the wife of Iove doth first inchant me, To judge her fairest, she a Crowne will grant me. Pallas her Daughter, next doth undertake me, Give her the prize, and valiant she will make me. I straight devise which can most pleasure bring, To be a valiant Souldier, or a King: Last Venus smiling came with such a grace, As if she swayed an Empire in her face. Let not (said she) these gifts the conquest beare, Combats and Kingdomes are both fraught with feare. Ile give thee what thou lovest best, (lovely Swaine,) The fairest Saint that doth on earth remaine Shall be thine owne, make thou the Conquest mine; Faire Laedaes fairest Daughter shall be thine. This said, when with my selfe I had devised, And her rich gift and beauty jointly prised:

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Venus victor, o're the rest is plac'd, Iuno and Pallas leave the Mount disgrac'd, Meane time my Fates a prosperous course had run, And by knowne signes King Priam cal'd me sonne: The day of my restoring is kept holy Among the Saints-dayes, consecrated solely, To my remembrance, being a day of joy, For ever in the Kalenders of Troy. As I wish you I have beene wish'd by others, The fairest maids by me would have beene Mothers, Of all my favours I bestow'd not any, You onely may enjoy the Loves of many: Nor by the Daughters of great Dukes and Kings Have alone beene sought, whose marriage Rings, I have turn'd backe, but by a straine more hie, By Nymphs and Pairies, such as never die. No sooner were you promis'd as my due, But I (all hated) to remember you: Waking, I saw your Image, if I dreampt, Your beautious figure still appear'd to tempt, And urge this voyage, Till your face excelling, These eyes beheld, my dreames were all of Hellen. Imagine how your face should now incite me, Being seene, that unseene did so much delight me▪ If I was scorch'd so farre off from the fire, How am I burnt to Cinders thus much nigher: Nor could I longer owe my selfe this treasure, But through the Ocean I must search my pleasure, The Phrygyan Hatches to the rootes are put Of the Idean Pines, (a sunder cut) ▪The Wood-land Mountaine yeelded me large fees, Beeing despoyl'd of all her talest Trees,

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From whence we have squar'd out vnnumbred beames, That must be wash'd within the Marine streames: The grounded Oakes are bowed, though stiffe as steele, And to the tough Ribs is the bending Keele Woven by Ship-wrights craft, then the Maine-mast, A crosse whole middle is the Saile-yard plac'd. Tackles and sailes, and next you may discerne, Our painted Gods upon the hooked sterne: The God that bears me on my happy way, And is my guide, is Cupid: Now the day In which the last stroke of the Hammer's heard Within our Navy, in the East appear'd, And I must now launch forth; (so the Fates please) To seeke adventures in the Eagean Seas. My father and my mother move delay, And by intreaties would inforce my stay: They hang about my necke, and with their teares, Wooe me deferre my journey: but their feares Can have no power to keepe me from thy sight: And now Cassandra full of sad affright, Will loose dishevel'd Tramels, madly skips, Iust in the way betwixt me and my Ships. Oh, whether wilt thou head▪ long run, she cries? Thou bearest fire with thee, whose smoake up-flies Vnto the heavens (Oh Iove) thou little fearest, What quenchlesse flames thou through the water bearest; Cassandra was too true a Prophetesse, Her quenchlesse flames she spake of (I confesse,) My hot desires burne in my breast so fast, That no red Furnace hotter flames can cast. I passe the Citty gates, my Barke I boo'd, The favourable windes calme gales afford▪

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And fill my sailes, unto your Land I steare▪ For whether else (his course) should Paris beare: Your husband entertaines me as his guest, And all this hapneth by the gods behest: He shewes me all his Pastures, Parkes, and Fields, And every rare thing Lacedemon yeeldes, He holds himselfe much pleased with my being, And nothing hides, that he esteemes worth seeing. I am on fire, till I behold your face, Of all Achayas Kingdome, the sole-grace. All other curious Objects I defie, Nothing but Hellen can content mine eye, Whom when I saw, I stood transform'd with wonder, Sencelesse, as one stroke dead by Ioves sharpe Thunder: As I revive, my eyes I rowle and turne, Whilst my flam'd thoughts with hotter fancies burne: Even so (as I remember,) look'd Loves Queene, When she was last in Phrygian Ida seene, Vnto which place by Fortune I was trained, Whereby my censure she the Conquest gained: But had you made a fourth in that contention, Of Venus beauty, there had beene no mention: Hellen assuredly had borne from all, The prize of beauty, the bright golden Ball. Onely of you may this your Kingdome boast, By you it is renown'd in every Coast: Rumor hath every where your beautie blazed, In what remote Clyme is not Hellen praised? From the bright Easterne Sun up-rise, inquire, Even to his downefall where he lakes his fire, There lives not any of your Sex that dare, Contend with you that are proclaim'd so faire,

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Trust me, for truth I speake: Nay whats most truē, Too sparingly the world hath spoke of you: Fame that hath undertooke your name to blaze, Plaid but the envious Housewife in your praise; More then report could promise, or fame blazon, Are these Divine perfections that I gaze on. These were the same that made Duke Theseus lavish, Who in thy prime and Nonage did thee ravish; A worthy Rape for such a worthy Man, Thrice happy Ravisher, to seize thee than, When thou wert stript starke naked to the skin, (A sight of force to make the gods to sin:) Such is your Countries Guise at seasons when, With naked Ladies they mixt naked Men. That he did steale thee from thy Friends, I praise him, And for that deede, I to the Heavens will raise him: That he return'd thee backe, by Iove I wonder, Had I beene Theseus, he that should assunder, Have parted us, or snatch'd thee from my bed, First from my shoulders should have par'd my head. So rich a purchase, such a glorious pray: Should constantly have beene detain'd for aye. Could these my strong Armes possibly unclaspe, Whilst in their amorous Foulds they Hellen graspe, Neither by free constraint nor by free giving, Could you depart that compasse, and I living: But if by rough inforce I must restore you, Some fruits of love, (which I so long have bore you,) I first would reape, and some sweete favour gaine, That all my suite were not bestow'd in vaine: Either with me you shall abide and ••••ay, Or for your passe your maiden▪ head should pay.

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Or say, I spr'd you that, yet would I trie VVhat other favour, I could else come b, All that belongs to love, I would not misse, You should not let me both to clip and isse. Give me your heart faire Queene, my heart you owe▪ And what my resolution is you know: Till the last fire my breathlesse body take, The fire within my breast can never slake. Before large kingdomes I preferr'd your face, And unoes▪ love, and potent gifts disgrace, To fold you in my amorous Armes I chus'd, And Pallas vertues scornefull, refus'd. VVhen they with Uenus in the hill of Ide, Made me the judge their beauies to decide; Nor doe I yet repent me, having tooke, Beauty, and strength, and Scepter'd rule forsooke. Methinkes I chus'd the best, (nor think it strange) I still persist, and never meane to change; Onely that my imploiment be not vaine, Oh you more worth than any Empires gaine. Let me intreate, least you my birth should scorne, Or parentage: know I am Royall borne. By marrying me, you shall not wrong you State, Nor be a wife to one degenerate. Search the Records where we did first begin, And you shall finde the Pleyads of our Kin: Nay Iove himselfe all others to for beare, That in our stocke renowned Princes were: My father of all Asia raines sole King, VVhose boundlesse Coast scarce any feathered wing, Can give a girdle to, a happier Land, A neighbour to the Ocean cannot stand:

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There in a narrow compasse you may see, Citties and Towers, more than may numbred be, The houses guilt, rich Temples that excell, And you will say I neere the great Gods dwell. You shall behold high Isliums lofty Towers, And Troyes brave walls built by immortall powers, But made by Phoebus the great god of fire, And by the touch of his melodious Lyer, If we have people to inhabite, when The sad earth groanes to beare such troopes of men Iudge Hellen, Likewise when you come to Land, The Asian women shall admiring stand, Saluting thee with welcome, more and lesse, In preasing throngs and numbers, numberlesse: More than our Courts can hold of you (most faire) You to your selfe will say, alasse, how baire, And poore Achaya is, when with great pleasure, You see each house containe a Cities Treasure. Mistake me not, I Sparta doe not scorne, I hold the Land blest where my love was borne, Though barren else, rich Sparta Hellen bore, And therefore I that Province must adore; Yet is your Land methinks but leane and emty, You worthy of a Clyme that flowes with plenty, Full Troy I prostrate, it is yours by duty, This petty seat becomes not your rich beauty; Attendance, Preperation, Curtsie, State, Fit such a heavenly forme, on which should waite, Cost, Fresh variety, Delicious diet, Pleasure, Contentment, and Luxurious ryot, VVhat Ornaments we use, what fashions faigne, You may perceive by me and my proud traine,

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Thus we attire our men, but with more cost, Of gold and Pearle, the rich Gownes are Imbos, Of our chiefe Ladies, guesse by what you see, You may he soone induc'd to credit me. Be tractable faire Spartan, nor contemne A Trojan borne, deriv'd from Royall ••••emme: He was a Trojan and allide to Hector, That waites upon Ioves cup, and fills him Nectr: A Trojan did the faire Aurora wed, And nightly slept within her Roseat bed: The Goddesses that ends nigh and enters day, From our faire Trojan Coast stole him away, Anchises was a Trojan, whom Loves Queene, (Making the Trees of Ida a thicke Screene Twixt Heaven and her) oft lay with, view me well I am a Troyan too, in Troy I dwell. Thy Husband Menelaus hither bring, Compare our shapes, our yeares and every thing, I make you Iudge••••e, wrong me if you can, You needs must say I am the properer man: None of my line hath turn'd the Sun to blood, And rob'd his Steeds of their Ambroiall food: My Father grew not from the Caucasse Rocke, Nor shall I graft you in a blood Stocke: Priam neere wrong'd the guiltlesse soule, or further, Made the Myrtan Sea looke red with murther▪ Nor thirsteth my great Grand▪sire in the Lake, Of Lethe, Chin deepe, yet no thirst can slake: Nor after ripened Apples vainely skips, Who flie him still, and yet still touch his lips: But what of this? If you be so deriv'd, You not withstanding are no right depriv'd.

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You grace your Stocke, and being so divine, Iove is of force compell'd into your Line. Oh mischiefe! whilst I vainely speake of this, Your Husband all-unworthy of such blisse, Injoyes you this long night, enfolds your waste, And where he lists may boldly touch and taste. So when you sat at Table, many a oy, Passeth betweene you my vext soule t'annoy, At such high feasts I wish my enemie sit, Where discontent attends on every bit, I never yet was plac'd at any Feast, But oft it irke me that I was your Guest: That which offends me most thy rude Lord knowes, For still his armes about thy necke he throwes, Which I no sooner spie but I grow mad, And hate the man, whose courting makes me sad Shall I be plaine? I am ready to sinke downe, When I behold him wrape you in his Gowne, When you sit smiling on his amorous knee, His fingers presse, where my hands itch to be. But when he hugs you I am forc'd to frowne, The meate I'am eating will by no means downe, But stickes halfe way, amidst these discontents, I have observ'd you laugh at my lament, And with a scornefull, yet a wanton smile, Deride▪ my sighes and grones, oft to beguile My passions, and to quench my fiery rage, By quaffing healths I'have thought my flame 'asswage▪ But Bacchus full cups make my flames burne heigher, Adde wine to love, and you add fire to fire. To shun the sight of many a wanton feate, Betwixt your Lord and you, I shift my seate,

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And turne my head, but thinking of your grace, Love skrewes my head to gaze backe on your face▪ What were I best to doe? To see you play Mads me, and I perforce must turne away, And to forbeare the place where you abide, Would kill me dead, should I but start aside: As much as lies in me I strive to bury, The shape of Love, in mirths spight I seeme merry. But oh, the more I seeke it to suppresse, The more my blabbing lookes my love professe. You know my Love which I in vaine should hide, Would God it did appeare to none beside, Oh Iove how often have I turned my cheecke, To hide th'apparant teares that passage seeke, From forth my eyes, and to a corner stept, Least any man should aske wherefore I wept: How often have I told you pitious tales, Of constant Lovers, and how Love prevailes. When such great heed to my discourse I tooke, That every accent suited to your looke; Inforged names my selfe I represented, The Lover so perplex'd, and so tormented, If you will know? Behold I am the same, Paris was meant in that true Lovers name: As often, that I might the more seurely, Speake loose immodest words, that sound impurely, That they offencelesse might your sweet eares tutch, I have lispt them up, like one had drunke too much▪ Once I remember, your loose vaile betrai'd, Your naked skinne, and a faire passage made, To my namored eye, Oh skin much brighter Than snow or purest milke, in colour whiter

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Than your faire mother Laeda, when Iove grac'd her▪ And in the shape of Feathered Swan imbrac'd her. Whilst as this ravishing sight I stood amazed, And without interruption freely gazed, The wreathed handle of the Bowle I grasp'd, Fell from my hold, my strengthlesse hand unclasp'd. A Goblet at that time I held by chance, And downe it fell, for I was in a trance. Kisse your faire Daughter, and to her I skip, And snatch your kisses from your sweet childs lippe. Sometimes I throw my selfe along, and lie▪ Singing Love-songs, and if you cast your eye, On my effeminate gesture, I still finde, Some pretty covered signes to speake my minde; And then my earnest suit blutly invades, Aethra and Climenea your two chiefe maides, But they returne me answers full of feare, And to my motions lend no further eare. Oh that you were the prize of some great strife, And he that wins, might claime you for his wife▪ Hyppomenes with swift Atlanta ran, And at one course the Goale and Lady wan, Even she, by whom so many Suters perish'd, Was in the bosome of her new Love cheerish'd. So Hercules for Dejaeira strove, Brak Ahelous horne, and gain'd his love. Had I such liberty, such freedome granted, My resolution never could be danted; Your selfe should find, and all the world should see▪ Hellen (a prize alone) reserv'd for me, There is not left me any meanes (most faire) To Court you now, but by intreate and prayer▪

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Vnlesse (as it becomes me you thinke meete, That I should prostrate fall, and kisse your feete. Oh all the honour that our last age wins, Then glory of the two Tindarian Twins, Worthy to be Ioves wife, in heaven to raigne, Were you not Ioves owne Daughter, of his straine. To the Sygean confines I will carry thee, And in the Temple of great Pallas marry thee: Or in this Island where I vent my moanes, Ile begge a Tombe for my exiled bones: My wound is not a slight race with an arrow, But it hath pierc'd my heart, and burnt my marrow. This Prophesie my Sister oft hath sounded, That by an heavenly Dart I should be wounded: Oh then forbeare (faire Hellen) to oppose you, Against the gods, they say I shall not lose you. Yeeld you to their beheast, and you shall finde, The gods to your pititions likewise kinde. A thousand things at once are in me braine, Which that I may essentially complaine, And not in papers empty all my head, Anon at night receive me to your bed. Blush you at this! or Lady doe you feare, To violate the Nuptiall lawes austeare? Oh (simple Hellen) Foolish I might say, What profite reape you to be Chaste I pray? Ist possible, that you a world to winne, Should keepe that face, that beauty without sinne? Rather you most your glorious face exchange, For one (lesse Faire) or else not seeme so strange: Beauty and Chastity at variance are, Tis hard to finde one woman chaste and faire.

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Venus will not have beauty over aw'de, High Iove himselfe stolne pleasures will applaude, And by such theevish pastimes we may gather, How Iove'gainst wedlokes lawes, became your father: He and your mother Laeda both transgrest, When you were got she bare a tender breast. What glory can you gaine Love sweetes to smother? Or to be counted chaster than your mother? Professe stricke chastity, when with great joy, I lead you as my Bride-espous'd through Troy: Then I inteate you raine your pleasures in, I wish thy Paris may be all thy sinne. If citherea her firme Covenant keepe, Though I with in your bosome nightly sleepe, We shall not much misdoe, but so offend, That we by marriage may our guilt amend. Your husband hath himselfe this businesse aided, And though (not with his tongue) he hath perswaded, By all his deeds (as much) least he should stay, Our private meetings, he is farre away, Of purpose rid unto the farthest West, That he might leave his wife unto his guest. No fitter time he could have found to visite, The Chrisean royall Scepter, and to ceize it: Oh simple, simple Husband? but he's gone, And going, left you this to thinke upon. Faire wife (quoth he) I prethee in my place, Regard the Trojan Prince, and doe him grace: Behold, a witnesse I againsts you stand, You have beene carelesse of this kinde command. Count from his first dayes journey, never since, Did you regard or grace the Trojan Prince;

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What thinke you of your Husband? that he knowe▪ The worth and value of the face he owes? Who (but a Foole) such beauty would indanger, Or trust it to the mercy of a Stranger. Then (royall Queene) if neither may intreate, My quenchlesse passion, nor Loves raging heate, Can winne you, we are wooed both to this crime, Even by the fit advantage of the time, Either to love sweet sport we must agree, Or shew our selves to be worse fooles than he: He tooke you by the hand the houre he rode, And knowing, I with you must make abode, Brings you to me, what should I further say, It was his minde to give you quite away. What meant he else? Then lets be blithe and jolly, And make the best use of your Husbands folly. What should we doe? Your husband is farre gone, And this cold night (poore soule) you lie alone. I want a bedfellow, so doe we either, What lets us then, but that we lie together: You slumbring thinke on me, on you I dreame, Both our desires are fervent, and extreame. Sweet, then appoint the night, why doe you stay? Oh night, more clearer than the brightest day: Then I dare freely speake, protest, and sweare, And of my vowes the gods shall record beare. Then will I seale the contract, and the strife, From that day forward, we are man and wife: Then questionlesse I shall so farre perswade, That you with me shall Troyes rich Coast invade, And with your Phrygian guest at last agree, Our potent Kingdome and rich Crowne to see.

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But if you (blushing) feare the vulger bruite, That sayes, you follow me, to me make suite, Feare it not Hellen; Ile so worke with Fame, I will (alone) be guilty of all blame. Duke Theseus was my instance, and so were Your brothers Lady, Can I come more neere To ensample my attempts by? Theseus haled Hellen perforce: your brothers they prevailed; With the Leucippian Sisters, now from these, Ile count my selfe the fourth (if Hellen please.) Our Trojan Navy rides upon the Coast, Rig'd, arm'd, and man'd, and I can proudly boast, The bankes are high, why doe you longer stay? The windes and Oares are ready to make way. You shall be like a high Majesticke Queene, Led through the Dardan Citty, and be seene, By millions, who your State having commended, Will (wondring) sweare, some Goddesse is discended. Where ere you walke the Priests shall incence burne, No way you shall your eye or body turne But sacrificed beasts the ground shall beate, And bright religious fires the Welken heate, My father, mother, brother, sisters: all Islium and Troy in pompe majesticall, Shall with rich gifts present you (but alasse) Not the least part (so farre they doe surpasse) Can my Epistle speake, you may behold More than my words or writings can unfold. Nor feare the bruite of warre, or threatning Steele, When we are fled: to dogge us at the heele: Or that all Graecia will their powers unite, Of many ravish'd, can you one recite,

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Whom warre repurchas'd? these be idle feares, Rough blustering, Boreas faire Orithea beares, Vnto the land of Thrace, yet Thrace still free, And Athens rais'd no rude Hostility. In winged Pegasus did Iason saile, And from great Colchos he Medea stale: Yet Thessaly you see can shew no scarre, Of former wounds in the Thessalian warre: He that first ravish'd you: In such a Fleete, As ours is, Ariadne brought from Creete: Yet Mynos and Duke Theseus were agreed, About that quarrell, not abreast did bleede. Lesse is the danger (trust me) then the feare, That in these vaine and idle doubts appeare. But say rude warre should be proclaim'd at length, Know, I am valiant, and have sinowie strength. The weapons that I use are apt to kill, Asia besides, more spacious fields can fill, With armed men then Greece, amongst us are More perfect Souldiers, more beasts apt for war: Nor can thy husband Menelaus be Of any high spirit and Magnanimity, Or so well prov'd in Armes: for Hellen I, Being but a Lad have made my enemies flie. Regain'd the prey from out the hands of Theeves, Who had desploid our Heards, and stolne our Beeves. By such adventures I my name obtained, (Being but a Lad) the conquest I have gained, Of young men in their prime, who much could doe, Deiphebus, Ilione as to. I have o'recome in many sharpe contentions, Nor thinke these are my vaine and forg'd inventions:

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Or that I onely hand to hand can fight, My arrowes when I please shall touch the white. I am expert in the Quarrey and the Bow, You cannot boast your he artlesse husband so. Had you the power in all things to supply me, And should you nothing in the world deny me, To give me such a Hector to my brother, You could not: the earth beares not such another: By him alone all Asia is well man'd, He like an enemy against Greece shall stand; Oppos'd to your best fortunes, wherefore strive you, You doe not know his valour that must wive you. Or what hid worth is in me but at length▪ You will confesse when you have prov'd my strength. Thus either warre shall still our steps pursue, Or Greece shall fall in Troyes all-conquering view: Nor would I feare for such a royall wife, To set the Vniversall world at strife: To gaine rich Prizes men will venture farre, The hope of purchase makes us bold in warre. If all the world about you should contend, Your name would be eterniz'd without end, Onely be bold, and fearelesse may we saile Into my Countrey, with a prosperous gale, If the gods grant me my expected day, I to the full shall all these Covenants pay.

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Hellen to Paris.

NO sooner came mine eye unto the sight, Of thy rude Lines, but I must needes re-wright. Dar'st thou (Oh shamelesse) in such hainous wise, The Lawes of Hospitality despise? And being a stranger, from thy Countries reach, Solicite a chast wife to wedlockes breach? Was it for this, our free Tenarian Port, Receiv'd thee and thy traine, in friendly sort? And when great Neptune nothing could appease, Gave thee safe harbour from the stormy Seas? Was it for this, our Kingdomes armes spread wide, To entertaine thee from the waters side? Yet thou of forraigne soyle remote from hence, A stranger, comming we scarce knew from whence. Is perjur'd wrong the recompence of right? Is all our friendship guerdond with despight? I doubt me then, whether in our Court doth tarry, A friendly guest, or a fierce adversary. Nor blame me, for if justly you consider, And these presumptions well compare together, So simple my complaint will not appeare, But you your selfe must needs excuse my feare. Well, hold me simple, much it matters not, Whilst I preserve my chaste name farre from spot, For when I seeme touch'd with a bashfull shame, It showes how highly I regard my Fame. For when I seeme sad, my conntenance is not fained, And when I lower, my looke is unconstrained.

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But say my brow be cloudy, my name's cleree, And reverently you shall of Hellen here. No man from me adulterate spoiles can win, For to this houre I have sported without sin, Which makes me in my heart the more to wonder, What hope you have in time to bring me under. Or from mine eye what comfort thou canst gather, To pitty thee, and not despise thee rather. Because once Theseus hurried me from hence, And did to me a kinde of violence, Followes it therefore, I am of such price, That ravish'd once, I should be ravish'd twice. Was it my fault, because I striv'd in vaine, And wanted strength his fury to restrame; He flattered and spake faire, I strugled still, And what he got was much against my will. Of all his toile, he reap'd no wished fruit, For with my wrangling I withstood his suite, At length, I was restor'd, untoucht and cleare, In all my Rape, I suffered naught (save feare) A fw untoward kisses, he (God wot) Of further favours, he could never boast: Drie, without rellish, by much striving got; And them with much adoe, and to his cost; I doubt your purpose aymes at greater blisses, And hardly would alone be pleas'd with kisses. Thou hast some further ayme, and seek'st to doe, What (Iove defend) I should consent unto. He beare not thy bad minde, but did restore me, Vnblemish'd, to the place from whence he bore me, The youth was bashfull, and thy boldnesse lackt, And tis well knowne, repented his bold fact.

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Theseus repented, so should Paris doe, Succeede in Love, and in repentance too; Nor am I angry: who can angry be With him that loves her? If your heart agree, With your kinde words, your suite I could applaude: So I were sure your lines were void of fraude. I cast not these strange doubts or this dispense, Like one that were bereft all confidence: Nor that I with my selfe am in disgrace, Or doe not know the beauty of my face: But because too much trust hath damag'd such, As have beleev'd men in their loves too much. And now the generall tongue of women saith, Mens words are full of Treason, void of faith. Let others sinne, and houres in pleasures waste, Tis rare to finde the sober Matron chaste: Why, sa it be that sinne prevailes with faire ones, May not my name be rank'd among the rare ones? Because my mother Laeda was beguilde, Must I stray too that am her eldest childe? I must confesse my mother made a rape, But Iove beguilde her in a borrowed shape, When she (poore soule) not dreampt of god nor man, He trod her like a milke-white feathered Swan: She was deceiv'd by error, if I yeelde To your unjust request, nothing can shield Me from reproach, I cannot pleade concealing, T'was in her, error: tis in me plaine-dealing: She happily err'd. He that her honour spilt, Had in himselfe full power to saule the guilt: Her error happied me too (I confesse) If to be Ioves childe, be a happinesse:

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To omit high Iove, of whom I stand in awe: As the great Grandsire to our Father in Law, To passe the kinne I claime from Tantalus, From Pelopet, and from Noble Tyndarus. Laeda by Iove in shape of Swan beguil'd, Her selfe so chang'd, and by him made with child, Proves Iove my father: then you idly strive, Your name from Gods and Princes to derive. What neede you of old Priam make relation? Laeomedon or your great Phrygian Nation? Say, all be true: What then? He of whom most, To be of your alliance you so boast; Iove (five degrees at least) from you removed, To be the first from me, is plainely proved; And though (as I beleeved well) Troy may stand, Powerfull by Sea, and full of strength by Land, And no Dominion to your state superior, I hold our Clyme nothing to Troy inferior. Say, you in riches passe us, or in number Of people, whom you bost your streets to comber, Yet yours a barbarous Nation is, I tell you, And in that kinde, doe we of Greece excell you. Your rich Epistle doth such gifts present, As might the Goddesses themselves content, And wooe them to your pleasures, but if I Should passe the bonds of shame, and tread awry, If ever you should put me to my shifts, Your selfe should move me more than all your gifts: Or if I ever shall transgresse by stealth, It shall be for your sake, not for your wealth; But as your gifts I scorne not, so such seeme Most precious, where the giver we esteeme,

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More then your presence, it shall Hellen please, That you for her have past the stormy Seas, That she hath caus'd your toyl, that you respect her, And more than all your Trojan Dames affect her. But ye're a wag in troth, the notes and signes, You make a Table, in the meats and wines; I have observ'd, when I least seem'd to minde them, For at the first my curious eye did finde them. Sometimes (you wanton) your fixt eye advances, His brightnesse against mine, darting sweet glances, Out gazing me with such a stedfast looke, That my daz'd eyes their splendor have forsooke: And then you sigh, and by and by you stretch Your amorous arme outright, the bowle to reach That next me stands, making excuse to sip, Iust in the selfesame place that kis'd my lip. How oft have I observ'd your finger make, Trickes and conceited signes, which straight I take? How often doth you: brow your smooth thoughts cloke, When to (my seeming) it hath almost spoke, And still I fear'd my husband would have spi'd yee, In troth you are to blame, and I must chide yee. You are too manifest a Lover (Tush,) At such knowne signes I could not chuse but blush, And to my selfe I oft was forc'd to say, This man at nothing shames. Is this (I pray) Ought save the truth? oft times upon the board, Where Hellen was ingraven, you the word, Amo have under-writ, in new spilt wine; (Good sooth) at first I could not skan the line, Nor understand your meaning: Now (oh spight) My selfe am now taught, so to Reade and Write▪

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Should I offend, as sinne to me is strange, These blandishments have power chaste thoughts to change, Or if I could be mov'd to step astray, These would provoke me to lascivious play. Besides, I must confesse, you have a face, So admirable rare, so full of grace, That it hath power to wooe, and to make ceasure, Of the most bright chaste beauties to your pleasure: Yet had I rather stainelesse keepe my Fame, Then to a stranger hazzard my good name. Make me your instance, and forbeare the fare, Of that which most doth please you, make most spare. The greatest vertues of which wise men boast, Is to abstaine from that which pleaseth most. How many gallant Youths (thinke you) desire, That which you covet? skorch'd with the selfe-same fire? Are all the world fooles? onely Paris wise? Or is there none save you have judging eyes? No, no, you view no more than others see, But you are plainer, and more bold with me. You are more earnest to pursue your game. I yeeld you not more knowledge, but lesse shame. I would to God that you had sayl'd from Troy, When my Virginity and bed to enjoy, A thousand gallant Princely Suters came: Had I beheld young Paris, I proclaine, Of all those thousand I had made you chiefe, And Spartan Menelaus to his griefe, Should to my censure have subscribe and yeelded, But now (alas) your hopes are weakely builded. You covet goods possest, pleasures fore-tasted, Tardie you come, that should before have hasted,

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What you desire, another claimes as due, As I could wish t'have beene espoused to you; So let me tell you, since it is my fate, I hold me happy in this present state. Then cease faire Prince, an idle suite to move, Secke not to harme her whom you seeme to love: In my contented state let me be guided, As both my states and fortunes have provided, Nor in so vaine a quest your spirits toile, To seeke at my hands an unworthy spoyle. But see how soone poore Women are deluded, Venus her selfe this covenant hath concluded, For in the Idaean Vallies you espie, Three Goddesses, stript naked to your eye, And when the first had promis'd you a Crowne, The second Fortitude and warres renowne; The third bspake you thus▪ Crowne, nor Warres pride, Will I bequeath, but Hellen to thy Bride: I scarce beleeve those high immortall Creatures, Would to your eye expose their naked features, Or say the first part of your Tale be pure, And meete with truth: the second's false I'am sure, In which poore I was thought the greatest meede, In such a high cause by the Gods decreed. I have not of my beauty such opinion, T'imagine it preser'd before Dominion, Or fortitude: nor can your words perswade me, The greatest gift of all, the Goddesse made me. It is enough to me, men praise my face, But from the Gods, I merit no such grace, Nor doth the praise you charge me with offend, me, If Venus doe not enviously commend me.

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But loe I grant you, and imagine true, Your free report, claiming your praise as due. Who would in pleasing things call Fame a liar, But give that credit, which we most desire. That we have mov'd these doubts be not you grieved, The greatest wonders are the least beleeved; Know then I first am pleas'd that Venus ought me Such undeserved grace: Next, that you thought me The greatest meede: nor Scepter nor warres Fame. Did you preferre before poore Hellens name. (Hard-heart, tis time thou shouldst at last come downe:) Therefore I am your valour, I your Crowne. Your kindnesse conquers me doe what I can. I were hard-hearted, not to love this man: Obdurate I was never, and yet coy, To favour him whom I can ner'e enjoy. What profits it the barren sands to plow, And in the furrowes our affections sow. In the sweete theft of Venus I am rude, And know not how my husband to delude; Now I these love-lines write, my Pen I vow, Is a new office taught, not knowne till now. Happy are they that in this Trade have skill, (Alas I am a foole) and shall be still; And having till this houre not slept astray, Feare in these sports least I should misse my way. The feare (no doubt) is greater than the blame, I stand confounded and amaz'd with shame, And with the very thought of what you seeke, Thinke every eye fixt on my guilty cheeke. Nor are these suppositions meerely vaine, The murmuring people whisperingly complaine,

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And my maide Aethra hath by listning, ••••ily Brought me such newes, as toucht mine honour highly: Wherefore (deare Lord) dissemble or desist, Being over-eyde, we cannot as we list Fashion our sports, our Loves pure harvest gather, But why should you desist? dissemble rather. Sport (but in secret) sport where none may see, The greater, but not greatest liberty: Is limitted to our Lascivious play, That Menalaus is farre hence away. My husband about great affaires is posted, Leaving his royall guest securely hosted, His businesse was important and materiall, Being imploy'd about a Crowne Imperiall: And as he now is mounted on his Steed, Ready on his long journey to proceede; Even as he questions to depart or stay, Sweet heart (quoth I) oh be not long away; With that he reach'd me a sweete parting kisse, (How loath he was to leave me, guesse by this.) Farewell faire wife (saith he) bend all thy cares, To my domesticke businesse, home affaires. But as the thing that I affection best, Sweet wife, looke well unto my Trojan guest. It was no sooner out but with much paine, My itching spleene from laughter I restraine, Which striving to keepe in and bridle still, At length wrung sorth these few words (I will.) Hee's on his journey to the Isle of Creete, But thinke not we may therefore safely meete▪ He is so absent, that as present I, Am still within his reach, his Eare his Eye,

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And though abroad, his power at home commands, For know you not Kings have long reaching hands? The fame for beauty you besides have given me, Into a great exigent hath driven me: The more your commendation fild his eare, The more just cause my husband hath to feare▪ Nor marvell you the King hath left me so, Into remote and forraigne Climes to goe, Much confidence he dares repose in me, My carriage, haviour, and my modesty, My beauty he mistrusts, my heart relies in, My face he feares, my Chaste life he affies in. To take time now when time is, you perswade me, And with his apt fit absence you invade me: I would, but feare, nor is my minde well set, My will would further, what my feare doth let. I have no husband here, and you no wife, I love your shape, you mine, deare as your life. The nights seeme long to such as sleepe alone, Our letters meete to enterchange our moane. You judge me beautious, I esteeme you faire, Vnder one roofe we Lovers lodged ar. And (let me die) but every thing consider, Each thing perswades us we shall lie together. Nothing we see molests us, naught we heare, And yet my forward will is slacke through feare▪ I would to God that what you ill perswade, You could as well compell, so I were made, Vn-willing willing, pleasingly abusde, So my simplicity might be excus'de. Injuries force is oft times wondrous pleasing, To such as suffer ease in their diseasing▪

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If what I will, you 'gainst my will should doe▪ I with such force could be well pleased too. But whilst our love is young and in the bud, Suffer his infant vigor be withstood. A flame new kindled is as easily quench'd, And sudden sparkles in▪ little drops are drench'd: A Travellers Love is like himselfe, unstaid, And wanders where he walkes, it is not laid On any firmer ground, for when we alone▪ Thinke him to us, the winde blowes faire, hee's gone: Witnesse Hysiphile, alike betraide, Witnesse with her the bright Mynoyan maide: Nay then your selfe, as you your selfe have spoken: To faire Onon have your promise broken, Since I beheld your face first, my desire Hath beene, of Trojan Paris to inquire: I know you now in every true respect, Ile grant you thus much then, say you affect Me (whom you terme your owne.) Ile grow thus farre Doe not the Phagian marriners prepare, Their sailes and Oares, and now whilst we recite, Exchange of words about the wished night: Say that even now you were prepar'd to clime My long wish'd bed, just at th'appointed time, The winde should alter and blow faire for Troy, You must brake off, in midst of all your joy, And leave me in the infancy of pleasure, A mid my riches, I shall lose my treasure. You will forsake the sweets my bed affoords, Texchange for Cabins, Hatches, and pitch'd boords, Then what a fickle Courtship you commince, When, with the first winde, all your Love blowes hence.

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But shall I follow you when you are gone, And be the grand-child to Lomedon? And Islium see whose beautie you proclaime? I doe not so despise the bruit of Fame. That she to whom I am indebt such thankes, Should fill the Earth with such adulterate pranks: What will Achaia? what will Sparta say? What will your Troy report and Asia? What may old Priam or his reverent Queene? What may your Sisters having Hellen seene, Or your Dardanidan brothers deeme of me? Will they not blame my loose inchastity: Nay, how can you your selfe faithfull deeme me, And not amongst the loosest Dames esteeme me. No stranger shall your Asian Poets come neare, But he shall fill your guilty soule with feare. How often (angry at some small offence) Will you thus say; Adultresse, get thee hence, Forgetting you your selfe have beene the chiese In my transgression, though not in my griefe. Consider what it is forgetfull Lover, To be sinnes Author, and sinnes sharpe reprover. But ere the least of all these ills betide me, I wish the earth may in her bosome hide me. But I shall all your Phrigyan wealth possesse▪ And more than your Epistle can expresse; Gifts, woven gold, imbrodery, rich attire, Purple and Plate, or what I can desire? Yet give me leave, thinke you all this extends, To counter-vaile the losse of my chiefe friends? Whose friendship, or whose aide shall I imploy, To succour me when I am wrong'd in Troy.

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Or whether can I, having thus mis-done. Vnto my Father or my Brothers runne. As much as you to me, false Iason swore, Vnto Medea, yet from Aesons doore, He after did exile her: Now poore heart, Where is thy Father that should take thy part? Old Aetes or Calciope? thou tookest No aide from them, who thou before for sookest. Or say thou didst (alas they cannot heare Thy sad complaints) yet I no such thing feare, No more Medea did, good hopes ingage Themselves so farre, they faile in their presage: You see the ships that in the Mayne are oft, And many times by tempests wrackt and lost, Had at their launcing from the Havens mouth, A smooth sea, and a calme gale from the South. Besides, the brand your mother dreampt she bare The night before your birth, breeds me fresh care, It prophecide, ere many yeares expire, Inflam'd▪ Troy must burne with Greekish fire, As Venus favours you, because she gained, A double prize by you; yet the disdained And vanquish'd Goddesses, disgrac'd so late, May beare you hard, I therefore feare their hate: Nor make no question, but if I consort you, And for a Ravisher our Greece report you: Warre will be wag'd with Troy, and you shall ru The sword (alas) your conquest shall pursue. When Hypodamia at her brideale feast, Was rudely ravished by her Centaur guest, Because the Salvages the Bride durst ceaze, Warre grew betwixt them and the Lapythes:

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Or thinke you Menela•••• hath no spleene? Or that he hath not povver to avenge▪ his teene? Or that old Tyndarus this wrong can smother? Or the two famous Twins each lov'd of other. So where your valour and rare deedes you boast, And warlike spirits in which you triumph most; By which you have attain'd'mongst Souldiers grace, None will beleeve you that but sees your face, Your feature and faire shape, is fitter farre For amorus Courtships, than remorselesse warre: Let rough hew'd Souldiers warlike dangers prove, Tis pitty Paris should doe ought save love. Hector (whom you so praise) for you may fight, Ile finde you warre to skirmish every night, Which shall become you better: were I wise, And bold withall, I might obtaine the prize, In such sweete single Combats, hand to hand, 'Gainst which no woman that is wise will stand: My Champion Ile encounter breast to breast, Though I were sure to fall, and be o'repreast. In that your private conference intreate me, I apprehend you, and you cannot cheate me, I know the meaning, durst I yeeld there to, Of what you would conferre; what you would doe, You are too forward, you too farre would wde, But yet (God knowes) your harvests in the blade. My tyred pen shall here his labour end. A guilty sence in thee vish lines I send. Speake next when your occasion best perswades, By Clymenea and Aethra my two maides.

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The Passionate Shepheard to his Love.

LIve with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and vallies, dales and fields, And all the craggy mountaines yeelds. There will we sit upon the Rockes, And see the Shepheards feede their flocks, By shallow Rivers by whose falles Melodious birds sing Madrigales. There will I make thee a bed of Roses, With a thousand fragrant poses, A cap of flowers, and a Kirtle Imbrodered all with leaves of Mirtle▪ A gowne made of the finest wooll, Which from our pretty Lambes we pull, Faire lined slippr for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold. A belt of straw and Ivie buds, With Corall Claspes and Amber studs, And if these pleasures may thee move, Then live with me and be my Love. The Shepheards Swaines shall dance and sing, For thy delight each May morning; If these delights thy minde may move, Then live with me and be my love.

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The Nimphs reply to the Shepheard.

IF that the world and Love were young, And truth in every shepheards tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move, To live with thee and be thy Love. Time drives the flockes from field to fould, When River rage, and Rocks grow cold, And Philomell becometh dumbe, The rest complaines of cares to come▪ The flowers doe fade, and wanton fields, To wayward Winter reckoning yeelds, A hony tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancies spring, but sorrowes fall. Thy Gownes, thy Shooes, thy bed of Roses, Thy Cap, thy Kirtle and thy Posies, Some breake, some wither, some forgotten, In folly ripe, in Reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and Ivie buds, Thy Corell Claspes and Amber studs, All these in me no meanes can move. To come to thee and be thy Love. But could youth last, and Love still breede, Had joyes no date, not age no neede, Then these delights my minde might move; To live with thee and be thy Love.

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Another of the same Nature.

COme live with me and be my deare, And we will revill all the yeare, In plaines and groves, on hills and dales, Where fragrant ayre breeds sweetest gales. There shall you have the beautious Pine, The Ceder and the spreading Vine, And all the woods to be a skrene, Least Phoebus kisse my Summers Queene. The seat for your disport shall be, Over some River in a Tree, Where silver sands, and pebbles sing, Eternall ditties with the Spring. There shall you see the Nymphs at play, And how the Satyres spend the day, The fishes gliding on the sands, Offring their bellies to your hands. The Birds with heavenly tuned throates, Possesse woods Ecchoes with sweet notes, Which to your sences will impart, A musique to inflame the heart. Vpon the bare and leafelesse Oake, The Ring-Doves w••••ing will provoke, A colder blood then you possesse, To play with me and doe no lesse. In bowers of Lawrell trimly dight, We will outweare the silent night, While Flora busie is to spread, Her richest treasure on our bed.

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Ten Glow-wormes shall attend, And all their sparkling lights shall spend, All to adorne and beautifie Your lodging with most majestie. Then in my armes will I inclose, Lillies faire mixture with the Rose, Whose nice perfections in Loves play, Shall turne me to the highest Key. Thus as we passe the welcome night, In sportfull pléasures and delight, The nimble Faries on the grounds, Shall dance and sing melodious sounds. If these may serve for to intice. Your presence to Loves Paradise, Then come with me and be my deare, And we will straight begin the yeare.
TAke, O take those lippes away, That so sweetly were forsworne, And those eyes the breake of day Lights which doe mislead the morne. But my kisses bring againe, Seales of Love, though seal'd in vaine. Hide, O hide those hills of Snow Which thy frozen bosome beares, On whose toppes the Pinkes that grow, Are of those that Aprils weares. But my poore heart first set free, Bound in those Icy chaines by the.

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LEt the bird of lowest lay On the sole Arabian tree, Herauld sad and Trumpet be, To whose sound, chast wings obay. But thou shrinking harbinger, Foule precurrer of the fiend, Augour of the feavers end, To this Troope come thou not neere▪ From this Session interdict, Every foule of Tyrant wing, Save the Eagle feathered King, Keepe the obsequie so strict. Let the Priest in Surplis white, That deuntive Musicke can, Be the death divining Swan, Lest the Requiem lack his right. And thou treble dated Crow, That thy sable gender mak'st, With the breath thou giv'st and tak'st, 'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go. Here the Anthem doth commence, Love and constancie is dead, Poenix and the Turtle Fled, In a mutuall flame from hence. So they loved as love in twaine, Had the essence but in one, Two distincts but in none, Number there in love was slaine, Hearts remote, yet not asunder,

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Distance and no space was seene, Twixt thy Turtle and his Queene, But in them it were a wonder. So betweene them Love did shine, That the Turtle saw his right, Flaming in the Phoenix sight, Either was the others mine. Propertie was thus appalled, That the selfe was not the same, Single Natures double name, Neither two nor one was called. Reason in it selfe confounded, Saw division grow together, To themselves yet either neither, Simple were so well compounded. That it cried how true a twaine, Seemeth this concordant one, Love hath Reason, Reason none, If what parts can so remaine. Whereupon it made this Threne, To the Phoenix and the Dove, Co-supreames and starres of Love, As Chorus to their tragique Scene.

Threnes.

BEauty, Truth, and Raritie▪ Grace in all Simpliicity, Hence inclosed, in c••••ers lie.

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Death is now the Phoenix nest, And the Turtles loyall breast, To eternity doth rest. Leaving no posterity Twas not their infirmity, It was married Chastity. Truth may seeme but cannot be, Beauty bragge, but tis not shee, Truth and Beautie buried be. To this Vrne let those repaire, That are either true or fa••••••, For these dead birds sigh a prayer.
WHy should this Desart be, for it is unpeopled? N Tongue, Ile hang on every tree▪ That shall civill sayings shoe. Some how briefe the life of Man runnes his erring Pilgrimage, That the stretching of a Span. buckles in his some of age▪ Some of violated vowes, twixt the soules of friend and friend, But upon the fairest bowes, or at every sentence end; Will I Rosalinda write, Teaching all that read to know, The quintissence of every sprite▪ heaven would in little show. Therefore Heaven Nature chang'd,

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that one body should be fill'd With all graces wide inlarg'd, nature presently distill'd. Hellens cheeke, but not his heart, Cleopatri's Majestie: Atlanta's better part, sad Lurecia's modestie. Thus Rosalinde of many parts by heavenly Synods was devis'd Of many faces, eyes and hearts, to have the touches deerest pris'd Heaven would these gifts she should have, and I to live and die her slave.

An Epitaph on the admirable Dramaticke Poet, William' Sheakespeare.

What neede my Shakespeare for his honoured bones, The labour of an age, in piled stones, Or that his hallow'd Relikes should be hid, Vnder a starte-ypointing Pyramid? Deare Sonne of Memory, great heire of Fame, What needs thou such weake witnesse of thy name. Thou in our wonder and astoneshment, Hast built thy selfe a live-long Monument: For whilst to th'shame of slow endevouring Art, Thy easie numbers flow, and that each heart, Hath from the leaves of thy unvalu'd Booke, Those Delphicke lines with deepe Impression tooke.

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Then thou our fancy of our selfe bereaving, Dost make us marble with too much conceiving, And so Sepulcher'd in such pompe doth lie, That Kings for such a Tombe would wish to die.

I. M.

On the death of William Shakespeare, who died in Aprill, Anno Dom. 1616.

REnowned Spenser lie a thought more nigh To learned Chauser, and rare Beaumount lie A little neerer Spenser to make roome, For Shakespeare in your three-fold, foure-fold Tombe; To lodge all foure in one bed make a shift, Vntill Dommes-day, for hardly shall a fift Betwixt this day and that by Fate be slaine, For whom your Curtaines may be drawne againe. If your precedencie in death doth barre, A fourth place in your sacred Sepulchre! Vnder this sacred Marble of thy owne, Sleepe rare Tragedian Shakespeare, sleepe alone; Thy unmolested peace in an unshar'd Cave, Possesse as Lord, not Tennant of thy Grave. That unto us, and others it may be, Honour hereafter to be laid by thee.

W. B.

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An Elegie on the death of that famous Writer and Actor, M. William Shakspeare.

I Dare not doe thy Memory that wrong, Vnto our larger▪ griefes to give a tongue; Ile onely sigh in earnest, and let fall My solemne teares at thy great Funerall; For every eye that raines a showre for thee, Laments thy losse in a sad Elegie. Nor is it fit each humble Muse should have, Thy worth his subject, now th'art laid in grave; No its a flight beyond the pitch of those, Whose worthles Pamphlets are not sence in Prose. Let learned Iohnson sing a Dirge for thee, And fill our Orbe with mournefull harmony: But we neede no Remembrancer, thy Fame Shall still accompany thy honoured Name, To all posterity; and make us be. Sensible of what we lost in losing thee: Being the Ages wonder whose smooth Rhimes, Did more reforme than lash the looser Times. Nature her selfe did her owne selfe admire, As oft as thou wert pleased to attire Her in her native lusture, and confesse▪ Thy dressing was her chiefest comlinesse. How can we then forget thee, when the age Her chiefest Tutor, and the widdowed Stage

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Her onely favorite in thee hath lost, And Natures selfe what she did bragge of most. Sleepe then rich soule of numbers, whilst poore we, Enjoy the profits of thy Legacie; And thinke it happinesse enough we have, So much of thee redeemed from the grave, As may suffice to enlighten future times, With the bright lustre of thy matchlesse Rhimes▪
FINIS▪
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