Fidelia. Newly corrected and augmented, by George Withers of Lincolnes Inne Gentleman

Sonnets.

HEnce away thou Syren leaue me, Pish vnclasp these wanton armes, Sugred words can neere deceiue me, Though thou proue a thousand charmes. Fie, fie, forbeare no common snare Can euer my affection chaine, Thy sugred baites of Loue deceits Are all bestowed on me in vaine.

I haue else where vowed a dutie, Turne away thy tempting eye; Shew not me thy painted beauty, These impostures I defie: My spirit lothes where gawdy clothes, And faigned othes, may loue obtaine, I loue her so whose lookes sweares no, That all thy labour will be vaine.

I am no slaue to such as you be, Nor shall that soft snowy Brest,

Rowling eye, nor lip of rubie Euer rob me of my rest. Go, go, display thy beauties ray To some more sonne enamored Swaine, Thy forced wiles of sighes and smiles Are all bestow'd on me in vaine.

Can he prize the tainted posies That on others brest are worne, Which may plucke the Virgin roses From the neuer▪ touched thorne: I can go rest on her sweet brest That is the pride of Cinthia's traine, Then stay thy tongue, thy Mermaids song Is, all bestow'd on me in vaine.

He is a foole that basely dallies, Where each Pesant mates with him; Shall I haunt the thronged vallies, When there's noble Hills to clime: No, no, though Clownes are scar'd with frownes, I know the best can but disdaine, Then those I'le proue, so will thy loue Be all bestow'd on me in vaine.

Yet I would not daigne embraces With the fairest Queenes that be,

If another shar'd those graces, Which they had bestow'd on me. Ile grant that one my loue where none Shall come to rob me of my gaine, The fickle heart makes teares and art, And all bestow'd on me in vaine.

I do scorne to vow a duty Where each lustfull Lad may wooe, Giue me her whose sunne-like beauty Buzzards dare not sore vnto: Shee it is affords that blisse, For which I would refuse no paine, But such as you fond fooles adieu, You seeke to captiue me in vaine.

Shee that's proud in the beginning, And disdaines each looker on, Is a Harpie in the winning, But a Turtle being woon: What ere betide she'le neere diuide The fauour shee to one doth daine, But fondlings loues vncertaine proues, All all that trust in them are vaine.

There fore-know when I enioy one, And for loue employ my breath,

Shee I court shall be a coy one, Though I purchast with my death. The pleasures there few aime at dare, But if perhaps a Louer plaine, Shee is not woone nor I vndone, By placing of my loue in vaine.

Leaue me then thou Syren leaue me, Take away these charmed armes, Craft thou seest can neere deceiue me, I am proofe, 'gainst womens charmes. Oft fooles assay to lead astray The heart that constant must remaine, But I the while doe sit and smile, To see them spend their loue in vaine.

SHall I wasting in despaire Die because a womans faire; Or my cheekes make pale with care, 'Cause anothers rosie are. Be shee fairer then the day, Or the flowry meedes of May, If shee be not so to me, What care I how faire shee be.

Shall my foolish heart be pined, 'Cause I see a womans ••••nde, Or a well disposed nature, Ioyned in a comely feature. Be shee kinde or meeker than Turtle Doue or Pelican, If shee be not so to me, What care I how kinde shee be.

Shall a womans vertues make Me to perish for her sake; Or her merits value knowne Make me quite forget my owne. Be shee with that goodnes blest That may merit name of best, If shee seeme not so to me, What care I how good shee be.

Cause her fortunes seemes too high, Should I play the foole and die; He that beares a noble minde, If not outward helpe he finde, Thinke what with them he would doe, That without them dares to wooe. And vnlesse that minde I see, What care I how great shee be.

Great, or good, or kinde, or faire, I will nere the more dispaire; If shee loue me then beleeue I will die ere shee shall greeue If shee slight me when I wooe, I can slight and bid her goe, If shee be not fit for me, What care I how others be.

FINIS.