Epitaphes, epigrams, songs and sonets with a discourse of the friendly affections of Tymetes to Pyndara his ladie. Newly corrected with additions, and set out by George Turbervile Gentleman.

The Louer seeing himselfe abusde, renounceth Loue.

THough men account it shame and folly to repent,

Or grutcht good will that was bestowde when nought saue faith was ment: Yet can they not denie but if the knot be burst, Then may we shew our selues vnkinde that friendly were at furst. He runnes an endlesse race that neuer turnes againe, And he a fonded Louer is that wastes his loue in vaine. Nought can he iudge of hues, that can not sée when Guile In place of friendship cloakes hir selfe in forme of forged wile. And he that plainely sées the Trap before his eie And will not shun from perill, tis no matter though he die. I tell my tale by proufe I speake it not by rot, To loue a subtile Lasse of late was fallen to my lot. On whome I set such store such comfort and delight, As life it was to sée hir face, a death to want hir sight. So I might doe the thing that might abridge hir smart,

And bannish all annoy that grue by froward fortunes Art: What daunger would I dread? or perill séeme to shun? None that is here bylow on earth or subiect to the Sun. To shew my selfe a Friend to hir, I was my Foe: She was the onely Idoll whome I honorde here belowe. This is (thought I) the same that was Vlysses wife: Who in the absence of hir Make did leade a dolefull life. Or else tis she at least whome Tarquyn did enforce By beastly rape with piercing sworde so to for doe hir Corse. But such is hir abuse so frowarde eke hir grace, As loue it may no longer last since friendship hides his face. I did not well aduise I built on sincking Sande. And when I thought she looude me best shee bore me but in hande. Where I had thought a Porte and Hauen sure to bée:

There founde I hap and dreadfull death, as gazers on may sée. As Mouse that treades the trap in hope to finde repast, And bites the bread that bréedes his bane and is intrapped fast: Like was my dolefull case that fed vpon my wo, Till now Repentance willes mée all such fansies to forgo. And (thanked be good hap) now once againe I fleete And swim aloft, that sanck of late fast hampred by the féete. Now is my fortune good so Fortune graunt it last: And I as happie as the best now stormie cloudes are past, I finde the bottom firme and stable where I passe, There are no haughtie Rocks at hande ne yet no ground of Glasse. Good Ancor holde I haue so I may vse it still, I am no more a bounden Thrall but frée I liue at will. But that which most torments my minde, and reaues my ioy.

Is, for I serude a fickle Wench that bred mée this annoy, But Gods forgiue my guilt and time mispent before And I will be a sillie Sot of Cupids crue no more.