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.

To his absent Friend the Louer writes of his vnquiet and restlesse state.

THough curious skill I want to wel endite, And I of sacred Nymphes and Muses nine Was neuer taught w^t Poets pen to write, Nor barrain braine to learning did incline To purchase prayse, or with the best to shine: Yet cause my Friend shall finde no want of will, I write, let hir accuse the lack of skill. No lesse deserues the Lambe to be imbrast Of lowring Ioue at sacred Altar slaine, If with good zeale it offred be at last By Irus, that doe Craesus Bullocks twaine: For no respect is to be had of gaine In such affayres, but to the giuers hart And his good will our Senses must conuart. Wherfore to thée (my Friend) these lines I send As perfite proufe of no dissembling minde, But of a hart that truely doth intend To shew it selfe as louing and as kinde, As woman woulde hir Louer wish to finde: And more than this my Paper can declare, I loue thee (Friend) and wishe thée well to fare. I would thou wist the torment I sustaine For lack of hir that should my wo redresse, And that you knew some parcell of my paine,

Which none may well by déeming iudgemēt gesse, Nor I with quill haue cunning to expresse: I know thou couldst but rue my wofull chaunce, That by thy meanes was brought into this traunce The day doth bréede my doole, and ranckling rage Of secret smart in wounded breast doth boyle, No pleasant pangue my sorrowes may asswage, Nor giue an ende vnto my wofull toyle: The golden Sunne that glads the earthly soyle, And erie other thing that bréedes delight Of kinde, to mee are forgers of my spite. I long for Phoebus glade and going downe, My drearie teares more couertly to shed: But when the night with vglie face doth frowne, And that I am yplaste in quiet bed, In hope to be with wished pleasure fed: A greater griefe, a worser paine ensues. My vaporde eies their hoped sléepe refues. Then rowle I in my déepe dispayring brest The ••wéete disdaines, and pleasant anger past, The louely strifes: when Stars doe counsell rest Incroching cares renue my griefe as faste, And thus desired night in wo I waste: And to expresse the harts excessiue paine, Mine eies their deawie teares distill amaine. And reason why they should be moysted so, Is for they bred my hart this bitter bale: They were the onely cause of cruell wo

Vnto the hart, they were the guilefull stale. Thus day and night ytost with churlish Gale Of sighes in Sea of surging brine I bide Not knowing how to scape the scowring Tide. At last the shining Rayes of Hope to finde Your friendship firme, these cloudy thoughts repel▪ And calmed Skie returnes to mistie minde: Which déepe dispaire againe eftsoone compels Too fade, and ease by Dolours drift expels: That Gods themselues (I iudge) lament my fate, And doe repine to see my wofull state. Wherefore to purchace prayse, and glorie gaine. Do ease your Friend that liues in wretched plight, Doe not to death a louing hart constraine, But séeke with loue his seruice to requight, Doe not exchaunge a Fawcon for a Kite: Refuse him not for any friendship nue A worse may chaunce, but none more iust and true Let Cressed myrror hée that did forgo Hir former faythfull friend King Priams Sonne, And Diomed the Gréeke imbraced so, And left the loue so well that was begonne: But when hir Cards were tolde and twist ysponne She found hir Troian Friend the best of both For he renounst hir not, but kept his oth. This don, my griping griefs will sōwhat swage And sorrow cease to grow in pensiue breast, Which otherwise will neuer blin to rage

And crush the hart within his carefull Cheast Of both for you and mée it were the best, To saue my life and win immortall fame, And thus my Muse shall blase your noble name For ruine on my wofull case.