〈◊〉 farewell vnto you both twixt hope and feare farewell all foolish strife Follie farewell which I haue fancyed so and farewell fancie that first wroughtst my woe Adue desire for death is harde at hande and yet againe I say adue to death Though loathed life doe in deathes daunger stande yet faith assures when bodie loseth breath The soule in heauen shall liue and fare right wel which makes me crie come death and life farewel Both frendes and foes vnto you all farewell farewell my frendes for frendshippe I haue found Farewell my foes that truth in time may tell when that â—y bones be buryed in the ground That with the worlde I die in charitie and so adue the bell hath done I die And yet once more to death agayne adue for dying thus me thinkes I liue againe My certayne hope showes ioyes that do ensue and hart findes ease of former pinching payne Which makes me thus by certayne prouse to tell faithe feares no death I dying liue farewell Counsaile geuen to a frend WHen gallant youthe hath gone a while at will and folowed that which fancie doth affecte And sées in tyme by proufe of sacred skill What wisdome would that reason should respect He then returnes from former vanytie and treades the pathe to true felicitie When witte doth waye the wanton toyes of will and will doth yéelde to folow wittes aduice And willing witte doth learne by wisdomes skil of perfecte good to knowe the passing price Then worldly toyes are all had in despight and Heauenly ioyes are all the hartes delight When fancie leaues to follow fonde desire and wisdome doth dame fortunes force defie And nature doth but reasones will require and conscience will conceale no trecherie Then if my mynde do not mistake his markes the skye will fall and we shall want no larkes The secrete sute of a louer NOt what I woulde yet would I what I wright not what I meane yet meane I what I saye Not what I mought yet would I what I might not what I can yet will I what I may My spéeche is darke but you perceyue much light then marke my wordes and gesse my meaning right For this you know my tonge so fast is tyde as for my lyfe I cannot yet speake playne Yet do I seeke to haue my mynde descride therby to speake some libertie to gayne For if my tonge might tell my tale in kynde my harte would hope to haue some ease of mynde But oh harde happe my hope his helpe denyes and hope halfe past dispaire doth drowne my mynde Yet reason showes that thou in deede art wise and ruth reportes that I shall fauour find Which makes me thus in midst of my distresse in secrete sorte to sue for some redresse Of sweet contentes WHat aâ—le I wretch or whereto was I borne what meanes my mynd my fancie so to set The greatest iemmes I seme to haue in scorne and daylie séeke the thinge I cannot get The reason is I seeke a thinge to craue which will would wishe but hope can neuer haue What is it welth no many rich I see as many seeke but few or none can haue Bewtie oh no faire ladies many be and t is I saye no common thinge I craue What is it loue tushe loue is but a toye yet faithfull loue is sure a heauenly ioy And therefore Loue I cannot choose but léeke but lyking lookes and lacke breedes discontent And they shal finde that doe such sorrowe seeke that lothed lacke doth luckles loue lamente What is it then whereof I am so faine oh t is contente I seeke but cannot gaine Oh sweete contente what one doth thée enioy who liues contente alas I least of all Content doth breede delight without annoy contente mislykes no fortune that can fall Contente is that which few or none can finde yet must I seeke to set at rest my minde One that had made his full choise MY foolish dayes and wanton lustes be past in vayne you seeke 〈◊〉 me againe Let be your toyes my thoughts are fixed fast Citheria should her selfe but lose her paine Remember not to me wonted delight each sweete so past is now but bitter gall Darcknes I 〈◊〉 that earst I counted light my reason is redéemde from fancies thrall Applie your selues to set some other snare perhaps ye may speede better if ye doe Such woodcockes many in the worlde there are that will be caught I am no pray for you One hath me fast already hers am I Ne will I be anothers till I die A Countrey Carrolle translated out of Belaye A Crowne for Ceres wil I make of euerie kinde of corne With garlandes made of faiâ—e 〈◊〉 boughes I Bacchus will adorne Two pottes of milke to Pales laste I purpose to present That they may heare my humble suite and to my will aâ—ente That Ceres may enforce the ground a plenteous croppe to yeald That Bacchus may the clustred grapes well prosper in the field That Pales so her mantle spread vpon the pleasaunt soyle That grasse and holesome hâ—rbes may grow to quite my painfull toyle The same in another sorte WIth fragrante flowers with eares of corne with leaues that largely grow On euery vine lets garlands make our thankefull mindes to show To Pales Ceres sacred dames and Bacchus last of all Who all our meddowes fields and grounds when we for grace did call With grasse with graine and grapes so filde as they did déeme it best We fearde no heate no hayle no colde for they our labour blest From all that might the grasse the eare or tender braunche offende The cattle birdes or greedie goate that from the hilles descend In summer season in the springe or Authume did not spoile The grasse the eare the sprouting budde but fedde on others soile Let mowiers then make merry now let Reapers all reioyce Let vintners vaunte of their good happe and all exalte their voice To praise the meddowes fieldes and ground that gaue so greate increase And laude their name that wrought this worke els will their goodnes cease Barnes garners sellers so are heapte with hay with corne and wine That neuer earst the like was seeâ—e with any mortall eyine An Epigram out of the same Author THough false Aeneas now be dead Dido laid in graue yet others lefte they in their stead that like coÌ„ditioÌ„s haue Who with the show of marriage rites which is a holy thing do hide their fleshly fonde delights that follie forth doth bring Verses translated out of the foresaide Poet. WIth loue with grace and perfect worthines the powers diuine were compassed rounde about The skie was clad and cloathd in comely sorte with burning rayes of happye heauenly hew All thinges were full of beutie and of blisse the sea was calme the winde was meeke and milde VVhen here below the Paragon was borne whose faire white skinne exceedes the Lillie farre Whose haire like golde doth glister in the sunne whose lippes doe staine the perfecte crimson die
haunt the field with more delight then euer he was wont Dame Procris she that markt it well beginneth now to muse and thinkes it but vnlawfull game her husband went to hūt See see the fruites of ielosie see on what ground they grow on no soyle els I warrante you but such as hat◠a staine Silde seekes the Sire his sonne in ouen but that he first did know himselfe ful ofte to haue beene there this case is too too plaine Vpon a sweete smile SWéete are the smiles in secreat I receaue and secreat sweete is swéetest swéete of all Would God swéete wench thou plainly didst perceaue how by thy smiles I liue deuoyd of thrall Then my sweete soule I know to my delight thou stil wouldst vse swéete smiling in my sight For if swéete hope yeald me such swéetnes still my fancie swéete for foode wil neuer sterue I can but yeald swéete thankes for swéete good will and sweetely séeke such sweetnes to deserue And could my wish once winne my sweete desire soone should I reape the swéete I would require Which sweete request is to thy sweete content by thy sweete will to worke my sweetest wish Which wish so sweete my sweete so sweetely ment is by sweete baite to catch so sweete a fish Which baite so sweete is loue I lay for thee and thou the fish I seeke to draw to me Which sweetely let thy fancy feede vpon and thou shalt finde so sweete a kinde of baight as by my hooke of hope I thinke anone to draw thee vp by lines of sweete delight And thus my sweete I swéetely angle still till my sweete loue hath caught thy sweete good will An inuectiue against loue WIth ue that see my loyall harte graunt my desire enioy his due desarte That all the world may wel be warnd by me to shun such mischieues as themselues may sée Let Poets fayne and tell what tales they list the troth is this loue growes in deede of lust First looke then prate and so forsooth they kist and then you know what further follow must Which to obtaine yet better be without how wittes must worke to bring this geare about Loue is in déede a naturall instinct which first doth grow but by view of the eye Which moues desire to passe beyond precinct and so doth bréede a secreate malady So loue is then a naturall disease and doth in déede to nature little ease The law of loue instruckes no more but this truely to serue the lady whome we loue To prooue each meane to please a misteris whome euery toy may to displeasure moue It is I finde a flatteringe kinde of arte which with deceit will fraught the truest hart And if it be as learned fathers finde it is a fire that doth consume the harte A welcome wounde vnto the wanton minde a pleasaunte poyson bréeding deadly smarte And if in loue be such a state to proue happie is he that neuer falles in loue And for my selfe I solemnly protest See see the fruites of ielosie see on what groun◠〈…〉 on no soyle els I warrante you but such as hath 〈…〉 Silde seekes the Sire his sonne in ouen but that he first did know himselfe ful ofte to haue beene there this case is too too plaine Which since I doe by true experience proue I hate the nature state and lawe of loue He craueth speedie loue or speedie death OH care leaue of to tire my restles minde come comforte come reuiue my dulled spright Flie fancie flie or els some fauoure finde cease sorrow cease loue lende me some delight Auaunte despaire oh helpe me hope in haste happe helpe my hope least life no longer last Drawe neare delight cheare vp my heauie harte packe from me paine away vile wretched woe Swéete heauenly ioye come helpe my secreate smarte oh ruthe relieue the wretch that sorrowes so Griefe get thee gone let pleasure take thy place hence vgly death for I must liue a space Mistres deare dame sweete soueraigne my ioy the Saint I serue the comforte of my care My hope my healpe my mirth in all annoy my loue my life my ioy of ioyes that are Oh saue my life that thus on thée doe cry lende me thy loue or let me quickly die My faith hath vowde to foyle all false suspecte and will wil worke in spite of enuies face Trothe is the othe which I cannot neglecte that loue should finde to gaine his ladies grace Oh Gods of loue that see my loyall harte graunt my desire enioy his due desarte He being tormented with manie passions craueth speedie remedie WHether wil wit or what is reason fled what wretched will hath now bewitchd my brain What rechlesse rage kéepes reags within my head what frantike fitte hath vexd me in ech vaine What mad conceite doth thus my minde molest that tumbling thoughts wil neuer let me rest Worke no more wit till reason rule thy will by sage aduise to stay thy busie braine Suppresse thy rage by sacred wisdomes skill and frantike fits wil flie away againe Let madnes marche into some other minde and séeke thy selfe some quyet rest to finde For liuing thus thy wit doth worke thée woe and braine bewitchd doth breede thee wilfull bale And rueful rage in time wil rancor soe that wil cannot geue eare to wisoomes tale Therfore good will let wit in time take héede least reason lost thou runne starke madde indéede Yet sit not stil for idlenes is ill but call to God to graunt thee heauenly grace That willing wit may worke his heauenly will and troubled minde may finde a heauenly place About this worke goe beate thy busie braine both rest on earth and heauenly ioyes to gaine That wight is bewitched that is subiect to beautie THe griefe is great that neuer findes redresse harde is his hap that findes no happy houre Doleful his doome that dyeth in distresse bewitchd the will that waites on beauties bower Wretched his woes that is bewrapt in loue such griefe happe doome and wretched state I proue For fancie now hath reason put to flight and witles will doth wisdomes wordes disdaine Desire acquaints him selfe with fonde delight and running wit hath got a wanton vaine Selfe will hath sought sage wisdome to beguile and hath in deede deceaud himselfe the while For fancies gaine is losse vnto my griefe and reason fled what rechles race I run My déepe distresse dispayring in reliefe doth tell me plaine my pleasant dayes are done My foule despight doth shew my mourning minde the bitter fruites of fonde delight I finde Repentance rues sage wisdomes small regard and wretched woes doe wanton toyes bewaile And heauie harte lamenteth hap so hard and sorrow shewes that selfe willes sleights doe faile Which makes me sing vnto my dying hower bewitchd is he that waytes on beauties bower Seeke and finde THe prouerbe sayes who seekes shal surely finde shall finde but what not that he séekes I gesse For why my selfe haue sought in sundrie kinde vnto my griefe
of teares had quencht it long ago How may I rightly tearme this straunge tormenting griefe No fire no life no death it is and yet it lackes reliefe A dialogue betweene Reason and the harte of a Louer Reason ABide a while my harte why doest thou haste away Harte I goe to seeke the louelie eyes that must my griefes allay Reason I pray thee â—arke a while my leisure will not serue Harte A feruente fire prickes me foorth and will not let me swerue Reason Alas poore harte alas how little is thy skill Thou hast not yet the sense to see the ende of all thy ill Those eyes that so thou seekest will with a glaunce or twaine To ashes soone conuerte thee quite that els mightst safe remaine These eyes they are thy foes then should they succoure thee Harte They are my frendes no foes I finde that will so frendlie be Reason Oh this deceaues me most the suttle birder so With fained notes deceaues the birdes and seekes to breed their woe Harte Thou much beguilest thy selfe or enuiest at my state The case is not as thou conceauest but as I saide of late The poore vnhappie birde vnto her death doth flie I goe to seeke those glorious eyes to purchase life thereby The contrarieties in Loue. TO me the night seemes shorte the day too long I flie from loue but follow still his trace Vnto my selfe extreame my selfe I wrong And wronged so returne to thee for grace Greate are my paines and yet they please me well I sée the best and fondly séeke the worst Desire drawes on despayre doth hope expell Twixte weale and woe thus is my case accurst I proue to runne but proue my proufe is vaine The light seemes darke the darke séemes light to me Though free yet bond I willingly remaine Youres am I most mine owne I may not be My will I wishe but dare not shew my sute Loue biddes me speake and speaking makes me mute The Louer to his bedde O Bedde o restles bedde and made for ease why doest thou not perfourme thy parte to me To me a plague why doest thou others please and please him least that most hath neede of thee I lay me downe in hope to rest awhile I prooue to sléepe and so let slippe my griefe But sower conceites my sweetest ioyes exile and lets the rest that most should lende reliefe The swelling seas when stormes and tempestes rise moue not so much as doth my troubled minde Of this or that so still it doth deuise for euery cause a new conceite to finde Amidst my care this comforte yet I haue that in my bedde when restles I remaine I may be bolde without offence to craue what likes me best although I craue in vaine And when I craue and crauing want my will May waile my wante and fréelie wéepe my fill A Louer whose ladie saide he was an vnfortunate flatterer wryteth these verses for answere thereunto IF euer wordes did wringe me at the harte My harte was grieued at that I hearde of late To let good will be barde for my desarte Desaruing loue to finde disdainefull hate Such is my happe such is my haples fate The heauens haue wilde my will must needes obay And hath no law the prouerbe so doth say Say what I can it cannot helpe a whitte All that I doe I see is done in vaine In vaine I worke in vaine I waste my witt In vaine I proue to purchase ease with paine A sillie proofe that bringes such sorte gaine Such sorte gaine for golde that geues me drosse Harde is my happe that alwayes liue by losse By losse I liue by life my selfe I lose I lose my selfe and yet I liue to loue I loue to liue and liue to like of those That feare my fraude although my faith they proue My secrete sighes my sorrowes cannot moue Her hardned harte whose beautie bindes me still To sue to serue to seeke and like her will Flatter alas I would I could doe so So should my griefe be shortlie easde thereby Truth is my trust let truthles treason goe Wordes are but winde where words no works doe try True dealinge was my Sire plaine meaning I Plaine as I am can singe a plaine songe best Best for my soule small for my bodies rest Vnfortunate there did she fitte me right A righter name she neuer gaue to none Fortune my foe death woorkes me all despight But let her spight she spightes not me alone Besides my selfe she spightes at many a one One is there yet which onely one am I That feare not fate but fortunes force defy Like he that list her false dissemblinge lookes Séeke who so will her faire entysing baites In such swete showes I sée vnsauerie hookes Which warnes my witte to shunne her sweete conceites Who hopes for happe vnhapie wretch he waightes Her cursed cuppe that will his mynde infecte And worke his woe ere he the worste suspecte Suspecte not yet though I suspend my chaunce That any chaunce can chaunge my constante mynde The hardest happe shall moste my hope aduaunce And make me hope although no happe I finde My hart hath vowde my vow her vertues binde To byde her owne and onely hers to be Whose sight lendes light whose light lends life to me The tormented louer that durst not reueale his state A Happie lyfe I led and liude at ease WheÌ„ prickt with loue I would at lardge complaine And to the flame that fedde my fond disease Geue vent at will to helpe my present paine But now aye me my wretched case is such As sâ—ase I can permit a sighe to passe To ease my hart that hath bene chardgd too much With chaunge of griefes that waxe a heauie masse I loue and yet I dare not say I leeke Tormented still I seeme to liue content Consumde with care I can no comforte seeke Such is my state so is my fancie bente But though I plaine my plaintes are much the lesse The lesse my griefe though little be my ioy Because I feele and finde this sower successe From sweete desire doth springe and spread annoy Yet let me see some comforte haue I more More then I thought to comforte me withall Amidst my griefes that growing grieue me sore This only grace vnto my lotte doth fall To write at night the wordes I feare to tell When wanting inke salte teares doe serue me well A dialogue betweene the Louer and Loue. Loue. Loue. O Loue when wast thou borne When euerie leaueles tree And parched soyle began to spring a seemly sight to see Louer Who brought thee foorth at first Lo. The nurce of all annoy Euen idlenes the plague to man and ende of all his ioy Louer Who gaue thee all this power to warre with worldlie wights Loue. An ardent hope a colde despaire that lets your chiefe delights Louer Where doest thou harbor most Lo. In young tender harts That tirant-like I still tormente with store of piercing darts Louer Yet tel who trainde thee vp