The faythfull louers resolution: being forsaken of a coy and faythles dame. To the tune of, My deere and only loue take heed.

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Title
The faythfull louers resolution: being forsaken of a coy and faythles dame. To the tune of, My deere and only loue take heed.
Publication
Printed at London :: [by J. White?] for P. Birch,
[1618?]
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Subject terms
Love poetry
Loyalty
Cite this Item
"The faythfull louers resolution: being forsaken of a coy and faythles dame. To the tune of, My deere and only loue take heed." In the digital collection Early English Books Online 2. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/A72836.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed May 6, 2024.

Pages

Page 256

The faythfull Louers resolution, bing forsaken of a coy and faythles Dame.

To the tune of, My deere and only Loue take heed.

[illustration]

THough booteles I must needs complaine my fate is so extreame, I lou'd, and was belou'd againe, yet all was but a dreame: For as that loue was quickly got, so t'was as quickly gon, Ile touch no more a flame so hot,
Ile rather lye alone,
No Creature be she nere so fayre shall any way beguile My fancy with a feyned teare, nor tempt me with a smile: Ile neuer thinke affection sounde that is so plainely showne, Nor build on faith before tis found,
Ile rather lye alone.
Should now the little God conspire againe t'intrap my mind, Or striue to set my heart on fire▪ alas the Boy's to blinde: For sithes Ile neuer venter smiles, nor hazard mirth for mone, Nor yet regard a Womans wiles,
Ile rather lye alone.
The blazing Torch is soone burnt out. the Diamond light abides, The first her glory hurles aboute, the next her vertue hides: The Sparke if any shall be mine, that else shewes light to none, For if to euery eye she shine,
Ile rather lye alone.
No Woman shall deceiue my thoughts with colours not in graine, Nor put a Loue so slightly wrought into my hands againe: Ile pa no more so deere for witte, but liue vpon mine owne, Nor shall affection conquer it,
Ile rather lye alone.
And now Ile set my heart at rest, in louing, labours lost, Ile be no more so rarely blest to be so strangely crost: The loue lost Turtle so will dye, the Phenixe is but one, They seeke no Mates, no more will I,
but euer lye alone.
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