RICH: NUGENTS Cynthia. CONTAINING Direful Sonnets, Madrigals, and passionate intercourses, describing his repudiate affections expressed in Loves own Language. Non ad imitandum, sed ad precavendum. Disce ex me. LONDON ❧ Printed by T. P. for Henry Tomes, and are to be sold at his shop by Gray Inn new gate in Holborn. 1604. O multa dictu gravia: perpessu aspera. Quae exantlato corpore atque animo pertuli Feminea vi, femineo interimor vultu. R. N. The Dedication of this Book. To the right honourable the Lady of Trymlestowne. Lady most worthy, of most estimation, In whom all goodness is together knit, Whose virtues purchase fame, fame admiration, Of holiest will, joined with a heavenly wit, Whose praise, if I would show by word, or writ, (A Theme too high for Cicero's Oration) My words, from my thoughts reach as low would flet, As my thoughts reach, from so high contemplatien: Receive in gree, this ill agreeing matter, An idle work in idle hours dispatched: The Persian King, whose power the world did threat, took in good worth a poor man's cup of water, Who needs not scorn a whit to be thus matched, If to be good, be more than to be great. The first part. Sonnet. I. THe Planet, whose swift course divides the times And warms the earth, that she her burden yields Approached now unto our northern climes. Leaving the scorched Aethiopian fields; The birds, that in that season still rejoice, To see their withered bowers new clad with green, Did summon me, in their sweet warbling voice, To give attendance on the Summer's Queen: I strait obeyed, and by two Crystal streams That through a pleasant grove forth murmuring slide, I laid me down, and viewed bright Phorbus beams, Which mounted from the East, with glistering pride. But soon my mind and looks from thence alured Two Sons, whose light had Phoebus' light obscured. Sonnet. 2. TWo Sons, whose light had Phoebus' light obscured, Firing with their bright beams, the neighbour brooks, Mine eyes, with wonder and delight alured, Upon themselves, to bend their curious looks; When lo, I spied a Nymph of peerless beauty, In whose white face, those planets fair were fixed, To whom in lowly wise, I did my duty, Of fear, and reverent love, together mixed, But she, my fainting voice no sooner heard, And saw where on the ground I groveling lay, Then like the trembling Deer, of Hound afeard, Back through the shadey grove she hied away: Away she hied, and when I lost her sight, My Summer's day ere noon, was turned to night. Sonnet. III. MY Summer's day, ere noon, was turned to night, And now no light frequents my darksome bower, For since that hour, that my fair Cynthia's eyes, Did mine surprise, with their divine aspect, Yet no respect would have to my relief, Black nights of grief, succeed my Summer's day. O beauteous May, so may thy beauty flourish, The Heaven so nourish may thy blooming flowers, And fertile shows rain down of happiness, Still still to bless thy days, as thou wilt deign To rue my pain, and sound my woes retreat, That grows so great, because thou growest so beauteous. Look on those duteous eyes, behold alas, The watery glass, where thou thyself mayst view, And let that hue, that first procured my pain, Dart forth again those comfortable beams, To dry these streams, which drowned have my rest, A small request, is one relenting look. Sonnet. FOUR WHere in the Storehouse of the heavens, was found The goodly sampler, whereout nature wrought, That fair embraudrie, which exceeds man's thought, As far, as do the stars our retch from ground. Fair Lada, whose rare beauty so renowned, Great jove, from his celestial seat down brought, When he the Warders of that treasure sought, To tempt with showers of gold as books resound. Nor Daphue, in her hunteresse array, Walking the woods, the day that Phoebus' chaste her, Can ever threads of so pure gold display, Nor such unspotted mines of Alabaster. And were her heart conform to her complexion, Our earth had not envy the heavens perfection. Sonnet. V CYnthia, the time will come, when looking back, Thou shalt behold how time hath tried my truth: And proudly triumphed in thy beauty's wrack: (Too late for both of us,) thou wile have ruth, And grieve, that thou didst not in time betake Thyself, to that, from which thou now so swervest: When blasts of age, thy youths fair fields do shake, Which were not reaped in season of their harvest. Regard (dear Maid) my right, so plainly showed, In these my writings, by thy name adorned, And think thy blooming youth, there best bestowed Where thy declining age, shall least be scorned. " So harms foreseen are better still prevented " Than by experience of the loss repent. Sonnet. VI LOng have I sought (o ruthless fair) to scale The long resisting walls of thy disdain: Th'assaulters, were sighs, tears, and visage pale, Which outwardly, bewrayed mine inward pain. Desire, conveyed this ruth-deseruing rout, Unto the fort, where my best hopes are seated, But then thy threatening frowns strait sallied out, And with their might the weaker force defeated, Yet loath thus recreant to forsake the field, Behold, how fairly to compound I proffer, Choose thy conditions as thou list, and yield, And for reward, see here what I do offer, The purest love, that ever heart did hold, More worth than Mountains of the Indian gold. Sonnet. VII. HEre Cynthia at thy feet I humbly tender, The keys of my (till now) unconquered heart, Whence I sue forth, void of affected art, Sighs, tears, and prayers, to make my souls surrender. Thou art a woman, women should be tender, Show by thy sentence, of what sex thou art, And let their humble suits, prevail in part, That plead not, for an obstinate offender. All, seek to break thy breasts congealed Ice, But so hard is thy heart, that nothing moves thee, Ah, leave dear Love, to be henceforth so rice, The only fault, for which the world reproves thee, And weigh not lightly so, his sound advice, That with such faith, such truth, such fervour loves thee. Sonnet. VIII. CYuthia, the tears which from mine eyes down flowing, Did represent the Springtides of my sorrow. Are now quite spent, even when my cares new growing, Had greatest need, their further aid to borrow; My voice, which had in charge, my teats to second, Is with incessant cries, grown hoarse, and broken, For now four gloomy Winters hath it reckoned, Since of my love, to thee it first had spoken; Then, since my tears, and voice, at once are reft me, View in my face, the dumb shows of my grief, Read in these lines, which only now are left me, Legions of woes, ranged in words so brief, Sure they would move thee, if thou once didst know them, But ah, they are so great I cannot show them. Sonnet. IX. OFt have I wished, in my zeals excess, To make my Cynthia see proofs of my duty, That in these lines, I could as well express, As in my soul, I do admire her beauty, Or that great Daniel, fit for such a task, This wonder of our Isle, had seen, and heeded, Then should his glorious muse, her worth unmask, And he himself, himself should have exceeded; Then England, France, Spain, Greece, and italy, And all that th'Ocean from our shores divideth, Would overrun their bounds, and hither fly, To find the treasure, that our Ireland hideth, But best is, that we never do disclose it, Since known but of ourselves, we shall not lose it. Sonnet. X. TO thee, the loadstone of my heavy thought, To thee, the Star that guides my beaten bark, To thee, the fairest one that nature wrought, To thee, that art the world's admired mark, I send these mournful hymns, my zeal hath brought, From out my sightless griefs, Cimmerian dark, And from despairs deep gulf, that long hath sought, To drown thy glorious praise, in my lives Ark. Appease, (o lovely Maid) this raging storm, With thy sweet smiles, to me more comfortable, Than his Ermoes, to the Sea-mane ●ies. What though mine artless lines want phrase, and form, Thy favours, may their lowliness enable, To lift thy sacred name above the skies. Sonnet. XI. CVpid, that under thy sweet Yoke hast brought, Th'inhabitants, of this huge globe around, And that the depth of my desires, dost sound, And seest the secrets, of mine inward thought, Thou seest, I feel, how dearly I have bought, My waiting on thy standard so renowned, And yet thou leav'st me groveling on the ground, By long delays, now tired and over wrought; I see, but too far off, that lamping light, To which thou dost me drive, and spur amain, But lo, I want thy wings, to make my flight; Enough, and more, do my desires obtain, If I may waste, in my desires by leisure, And that my sighs, and tears, do not displease her. Sonnet. XII. I saw in earth, a form Angelical, And heavenly graces, in a worldly wight, Which did my soul so ravish and delight, That since her name, I celebrate and call. I saw from her fair eyes, the tears down fall, Those eyes which oft have dimmed the suns clear light, And heard her sighing, utter words of might, To stay the floods, and move the mountains tall. Doole, pity, anger worthiness, and love, So sweet a mourning melody consorted, That thither woods, and hills, and rocks remove, And dead men's bones, out of their grave resorted. The spheres and stars, did stray from their due course, such of this heavenly music was the force. Sonnet. XIII. MIne eyes how can you without dazzling view, The fairest hue that ever ●ie had seen? That sovereign Queen whom your sad looks have sewd? No Sun hath viewed, nor never shall her peer: O you more clear than are the suns clear beams. Receive these streams the tribute of mine eyes. And you my cries the orators of sadness, Turning my gladness into ruthful moans, join with my groans, black registers of sorrow, And sad words borrow of my doleful tongue, To tell the wrong that you bereeves your food, Then what sour mood, can move her to withstand you. So fairly land you, in that happy port, Where doth resort the prize for which ye venture: And lowly enter to complain my grief, To my soul's thief, my lives judge now ordained. Let mine unfeigned faith prevail, dear jewel, O be not cruel since thou art so fair. Sonnet. XIIII. O Be not cruel, since thou art so fair, Let not disdain my high deserts disgrace, Nor one foul fault thy beauties prise impair, Sweet thoughts do best beseem so sweet a face. Behold the triple region of the air, Woods, valleys, mountains, rocks, and every place, Are filled with Echoes of my plaints and prayer, Which at thy deafened ears, still sue for grace. All of them show each in his diverse kind, That of my woeful case they have compassion, The ro●ks my words repeating, seem inclined To bear some burden of my hidden passion, Ah Cy●thia hear at length my grievous moans, And be not harder than these senseless stones. Sonnet. XV. WHen careful thoughts that long disturbed my mind Had given my weary senses leave 〈◊〉 ●est, Old Morph●●s arose as beetle blind, And did with his black Mace, mine eyes arrest, Me thought I saw a lovely milk-white Hind, Whom strait pursued a stately Hart, whose crest, Did well declare be was of noble kind, And fawning show'd he loved the gentle beast: Then forthwith did a mongrel whelp appear, His Sire a Stag, but on a Roe begotten, And soon this noble Hart beheld his dear, Accept th'unkindly beast, himself forgotten. Who thenceforth ever ranged the fields alone, And to the woods and winds still made his moan. Sonnet. XVI. Unto the woods and winds he made his moan, And sure his doleful case I greatly rued, But that my mind was called from thence anon, To heed as strange a sight that strait ensued. Me thought two gentle Hawks, but joined in one, By kind and kindly choice, aloft I viewed: When lo, I saw the female, soared and gone. After a kestrel Kite obscurely mewed: Which sight so sore my fantasy did vex, That suddenly I start out of my slumber: Not Cy●thia, but the frailty of her sex, Doth me with sad suspect and fears encumber: But cre my dear, my Hawk, make such a flight, O let these eyes first want their wont light. Sonnet. XVII. O Let these eyes, first want their wonted light, And ugly death, my captive corpse immure, And day be canceled by eternal night, And no Sunshine, nor Moon, ne stars endure, Ere the world's wonder, and my soul's delight, Which doth the stars down from their s●ates allure, To yield their homage to her beauty bright, should her fair worths, with so foul stains obscure, Ere I, who blaved her name in foreign soils, Making old Albion shores her praise resound, Should see a stranger, triumph in my spoils, Or any else, with my fresh garland crowned. No, no, those Planets that her birth allotted, Will never see, their glories glass so spotted. Sonnet. XVIII. O Dismald dreams, offspring of sleep and night, Hell's messenger, foretelling our misfortune, Robbers of rest, and enemies of light, That still with hasty sights our sense importune. Can not my Genius ill affected sprite, Contrive the ruin of my weak estate, But you, O cursed dreams, for more despite, Must before time, mine ill prognosticate? And thou, that hast my love so meanly prized, The hire thereof unto a stranger giving, Was it for this, I thee have canonised A heavenly Saint, though here on earth yet living. Ay me, what cross i●urious star assigned So fair a face, to such a faithless mind. Sonnet. XIX. LIke as the silver swan in her extremes, Bemoans herself, with doleful harmony, And takes her lastleave, of her haunted streams, Assuring them, that now her death draws ni●. So thou my Muse, breath out in 〈…〉, The sad discourses of my 〈…〉; And let thy lines, yelad in mourning co●●s, My near approaching end, prognosticare; And thou poor heart, sometime the blissful bower, Where lovely Cynthia, deigned to repose ●er, Thy joyful tunes, change into wailing sour, For now thy joy is past, and thou must lose her. Yet with thy ●●racke, procure in her some ruth, And make the world admire such love and truth. The first Madrigal. Happy the beauteous ●owres, and berbars' soot, Wherein my Cynthia with the Muse's walks, Happy the shore, that hears her as she talks, And bears t●●●mpres●ion, of her dainty foot: Happy the grove, which her aspect doth grace, Happy the lake, wherein she baths her f●●e, Happy the soil, ordained to be her place. Soil, lake grove, flowers, to ease my deep distress, Impart some part, of your great happiness. Madrigal. II. THe wounded dear from running never ceaseth, Spurred by the piercing shaft within his side, His grievous pain▪ doth him still forward guide, And still his restless race, his pain increaseth. Right so far I, with that same deadly dart, Where with fierce love, hath pierced my conquered heart, The more I fice, the more my wound doth smart. And now I find, in vain they flee or tarry, That with themselves, heir own destruction carry. That hath me, fra●'d ay me of feeling earth, And curse the day when first I saw that Sun. Which makes me look like one nursed in the wood, So fierce a Tiger in the wildest wood, Did never feed, as yet by night ne day, As she for whom I weep by shade and S●●ne, Gaining no truce from tears at even ne morn: And though myself be made of lowest earth, My high desires come from the lofty stars, O that ere I return to you fair stars, Or to my wo●●ed walks within the wood, Tiring this corpse which soon will turn to earth, I saw her rue me, who may in one day, Repair my four years loss, and ere the morn, Earich me at the rising of the Sun. That I were with her at the set of Sun, And none beheld us save the silent flarres, One night that could be shortened by no morn, And that she might not turn into green wood, To leave mine arms as Daphne did that day, That golden Phoebus chased her here on earth. But first shall earth enclose me in the wood, And days grey cope embroidered be with stars, Before my Sun enjoy so sweet a morn. FINIS. The second part. Sonnet. I. STep forth into the world mine Orphan verse, Abortive brood, of my deceased hopes, And doolefully, pursue your parent's hearse, Attired in your black stoales, and tawny copes, Such mourning weeds, beseems our mournful woes, And sith revenge, is all your remedy, With outcries loud, to coasts unknown disclose, The dire contriver of my tragedy: Then prophesy, with holy fury fired, And tell fair Cynthia, how the heavens on high, The sun, the stars, the earth have all conspired, To wreak my wrongs, and end her tyranny: And that the sprights below, and power's above her, Threaten revenge, for murder of her lover. Sonnet. II. LEd by the fainting steps of forlorn hope, Onward I go, where froward fates me drive, ●●ll past the bounds, of this our Horoscope, With wearied limbs, at last I did arrive, Within a deseit dark unhaunted cave, So low, that loathed it seemed of world's pure air, And by the Poesies, on the posts ygrave, I found it was the mansion of despair; Further I passed, unto an inner room, Where that sad wight, sat cross-legged in his chair, And humbly prayed him to unfold his doom, If any bliss, my bale should aye repair; Die wretch quoth he, and leave not Fortune's scorn, thy hap was buried, ere thy hopes were borne. Sonnet. III. Fair trees, in whose smooth rinds I oft engraved, That name, which love had in my heart enrolled, To whom as in those burning fits I raved, My never ceasing pains at large I told. Clear lake, whose calm vast floor I over-pav'd With tears, that from my fertile eyes down rolled, When of your waters oft I humbly craved. To ease my flaming bowels with their cold: Declare my four years love, my discontents, And how I have at Cynthia's hand deserved, And you tall trees, my loves true monuments, Retain those lines, which in your coats I carved, That men her name may read and reading hate, That was in love so false, and so ingrate. Sonnet. FOUR O That my love were with thy liking ended, And with thy faith, my fire had also turned, thy fault should not thus still be reprehended, And few had known the flame wherein I burned: My freeborn rhymes, that ah too long have mourned, And from black Lethe's gulf, thy name defended, Should of their charge, thy praise be now disburdened. And thou remain unknown, and uncommended: But since my cruel stars decrees are such, As cause me love, and prosecute my death, My constant end, shall try my loves pure touch, Yielding the farewell of my failing breath, To thee, O Vulture on my heartstrings seizing, Sith that my death is most unto thy pleasing. Sonnet. V Marvel not Cynthia, that my muse brings forth, these bitter fruits of long concealed disdaigne, Seeking to taint, thy never-matched worth, With oft objecting thine unkindness stain, For all, are rave of a feeble brain, Of one, whom love, and hate, have long held sick, Who, weakened by the force of former pain, By Cynthia's change, is wexen lunatic. Thou Cynthia, art the Moon whose influence, the flowing tides of mine affects doth sunder, whose fair aspect, food of my greedy sense, Now having lost, I starve, nor is it wonder, that my soul's powers, thus from their Cells have ranged, Sith thou thy faith, but not thy form, hast changed, Sonnet. VI AY me, despair comes now to claim the scope, Of my sad thoughts drowned in deep woes excess, For I am reft, the object of my hope, And my fierce fair, a stranger doth possess, Yet Sydney's gentle shepherd could devise, In such a case, to find a remedy, who bleared his icalous hosts mistrustful eyes, By his kind hostess handsome industry, Then why should I despair, of like success, whose happy rival, is a harmless boy, But ah, my Cynthia doth this hope suppress, who chastely proud persists, and sweetly coy, But Cynthia, why do I for this reprove thee, Since for thou wast so chaste, I first did love thee. Sonnet. VII. THe peerless bird, bred in the Arabian soil, that solely lives on earth, without a mate, Strangely provides by his own small spoil, An heir, that may succeed him in his state: For when he knoweth his hour, he mounts so high, that kindled by the sun, in flames he flashes, and in that instant, out gins to fly an other of his kind, borne of his ashes. Even so my heart, consumed with raging fire. Dies (Cynthia) that thy will may be fulfilled, But strait, love charms it with more fresh desires, and so revives, what thy disdain erst killed: Thus, dost thou kill, and cure again, O cruel, Because my flames, may never want their fuel. Sonnet. VIII. Those scalding sighs, which show'd my hearts chaste fire, More hot than sunbeams, in the midst of julie, Nor those warm tears, sprung from more warm desires, that on my ruthless love, did wait so duly; Can unto that supreme reward aspire, an infant late hath got, start up but newly, Whose birth, or own desert, was nothing hire, Ne could his age, yet learn to love so truly. Yet, though I see, myself thus made a scoff, I can not stop the course, of my zeals flood, My love, and truth, when hopes are all cut off, Shall grow, like imps, which from hewn stumps do bud, the world shall see, when nought my hope doth nourish, My faith once vowed amidst despair can flourish. Sonnet. IX. OH whither run'st thou thus, mine angry pen? Whither, my bitter, and respectless times? 'Gainst her, who makes you love in after times, and summons you, from out dumb silence den. O, how I shame the world abroad should ken, Your railing Satyrs hates harsh sounding chimes, So falsely charging, with injurious crimes, the world's chief wonder, glory unto men. My soul, the pray to tyrannising love, found the retreat to mine invective Muse; Who, though my ruthless fair, thou canst not move, Must yet obey thy fate, which sends the news, that when my bones, in earth are cold and rotten, thy flame shall not be quenched, nor love forgotten. Sonnet. X. CEase mournful Muse, thine unregarded moans, ●hat with my grief, increase my loves disdaigne: Disdaigne more hard to break, than marble stones, For those, are pierced with drops of softest rain: But I, that from mine eyes, such showers do reign, to mollify a heart, more hard than stones, Find for my last relief, but stern disdaigne, Which suits my newborn griefs, with new found moans. Since then such grief, clad in such artless truth In my remorseless fair no pity stirs, Since my complaints which must procure some ruth, In stranger's ears, do sound so harsh in hurs: I'll silent die, and leave to deaths recital, The story of my love, and loves requital. Canzone. THe ruler of this mighty Monarchy, That in his thought, this triple frame sustains, Ruling it after his divine election, Commanded once the heavens, and stars on high, And Elements to join their power and pains, To build a work of exquisite perfection; They strait, their Lord's direction, Obey, with care and duteous diligence, In such obedient strife, they all contended, That soon the work was ended: So stately, fair, and of such excellence, As erst was never seen, of mortal sense. The walls were built, of spotless Alabaster, The roof, where● the owner seemed lavish, Was all thick covered, with the purest gold, Save only that the front, white snow did plaster, The lofty windows, that my soul did ravish, With dear delight, as I did them behold, (Ay me that was so bold) Were two black orbs, enclozed in circlesblew, Of let, and sapphire, quaintly interlaced, Which Hebene arks embraced, Whence forth in troops, loves winged soldiers flew. And took me, ere I could their waits eschew, The gate was built of snowwhite ivory, All drawn in compass curiously about, And eu'nly set, within pure Coral bounds; the leaves were brazill of Vermilion die: Within a Porter sat, who still sent out, A heavenly consort, of melodious sounds, Which gave me many wounds, And cured them eft, with Bal●●us of joys, Not Orphens' song, ne Mermaids music rare, Can ever yet compare With this delightful, strange, melodious noise, Which ends and breeds a new, mine oldaunoyes. Amid the hall, there was a stately seat, With curious skill, and skilful care yearued, A squared stone, of orient Diamond: Here reason sat, and great affairs did treat, And with his lore, this peerless work preserved, Prescribing laws, unto that happy land, Love walked on the strand, For this fair pile is walled with fairest rivers, And when he had espied the pleasing mark, He strait did bend his Ark, And at the precious Chair, he shot whole quivers, But ay the stone returned his shafts in shiners. When thus a while in vain his force he tried, Scorning the shameful foil, he wheels about, T'awreake his spite, upon some weaker power: And me unarmed alas he first espied, As I stood warelesse gazing in the rout, Which came to wonder, at this goodly tower. He stared with visage sour, And from his quiver took a golden flight, That from the rest, of purpose he selected, And when I least suspected, I felt the shaft full in my bosom light, And yield I must, that wanted force to fight. Like one that having a repulse sustained, assaulting of a fort, doth turn his way, and sacks some village weak, and unprepared: Or like a Lion fierce, with famine shaigned, who, when he fails of his desired prey, Devours the beasts which he before had spared: So love with me hath fared: 〈…〉 thy power which erst did vanquish, 〈◊〉 Ph●bus, thundering jone, and warlike Mars, Be not decayed and scarce: With those bright arms, that cause me thus to languish, Revenge thine own reproach, and case mine anguish. My song if any seek, By their prompt wits thy mysteries to measure, Let them divine, but never know thy treasure. Madrigal. I. I Saw my fair, abroad the fields once randoning, That fair, on whom the heavens their graces lavished, Like lovely Thetis, her sea-bowres abandoning, My sprights, forthwith with deep delight were ravished, But then, on me she cast her look so scornfully, That down I sunk, and she nought caring vanished; And ever since, I wail thus mournfully: From my soul's bliss, by this dumb sentence banished: Then judge the world, how well my love is guerdoned, Where I for meed, request but to be pardoned. Madrigal. II. THe burning lamp, when once that oil is spent, Whose humour erst, preserved it in his prime, loseth his light, and dieth incontinent; So I, whom falsehood and unkindness rife, Have left deprived of her who was sometime, Oil of my flaming lamp, lamp of my light, Do bid my last adieu, to woddly joys. Which I (God wots) have not enjoyed but seldom, For now mine end will end all mine annoys, And to a loathsome life fair death is welcome. Sonnet. XI. Farewell sweet Isle, within whose pleasant Bowers, I first received life, and huing air, Farewell the soil, where grew those heavenly flowers, which bravely deike the face of my fierce fair, Farewell the place, whence I beheld the towers, with pale aspect, where her I saw repair: Farewell ye floods, increased by those showers, wherewith mine eyes, did entertain despair: Farewell clear lake, which of art made the glass, to rarest beauty, of mine ill the root, when she vouchsafes upon thy shores to pass, Blessing thy happy sand, with thy fair foot, Farewell fair Cynthia, whose unkind consent, Hath caused mine everlasting banishment. Sonnet. XII. YOu that peruse these sorrow charming rhymes, the doleful ditties of a dying sprite. Vouchsafe to rue my ruth-deseruing plight, and know the treasure of your happy times. No glory I affect of future times: Such honours are too high for my poor plight, Strive they for such, whose unaffected sprite, Forge them a subject, to set forth their rhymes. If any chance: to find in these my times, the lively pattern of his deadly plight, Let him condole with mine afflicted sprite, whose grief may not be told, in length of times. Times are to so short to show my woeful plight, No rhymes can sound the sorrows of my sprite. His lean taking of Cynthia, r. herein his own death is presaged. Coming to take my last leave of my Love, (Oh that I then leave of my life had taken,) I told her, how I now my chance would prove: Abroad, since home-born hopes had me forsaken. She then, in whom my piercing grief did waken, Some spark of ruth, too late alas assays, To cross this course, which I had undertaken, Now she persuades, now weeps, now sweetly prays. But, neither reasons, tears, nor prayers, could raise The siege, that honour to my heart had laid, When with a deep-fetched sigh, the lovely Maid, The horror of her breast, thus out bewrays: woe worth, quoth she, must that dear head and hand, Lie lowly earthed, in an uncouth land. FINIS. The third Part. To his Cousin Master Richard Nugen● of Donower. Sonnet. I. MIne own Dick Nugent, if thou list to know, The cause that makes me shun my western home And how my tedious time, I here bestow, Where angry Thetis, 'gainst her bounds doth foam: Weet, that to ease that never-healing wound, Which now four summers heat hath made to fester, By time, by absence, or by counsel sound. I flee the soil, where my sweet foe doth rest her. I sojourn here, where I remain so eased, By this my flight, of the tormenting blow; As doth the dear, on whom the shaft hath seized, By late unbending of the deadly bow; And since, I have this curse even fatal proved, That I am borne to love, and not be loved. The answer of M. Richard Nugent of Donower. Sonnet. II. MIne own dear Dick, whom I love as my life, And ever shall, whiles I in life remain, I thee advise, to leave this lingering strife, Between thy love, and thy loves hope so vain, And for those years, wasted so long in vain, To shed some tears, with full remorse of mind, And to be rid of thy tormenting pain, To shun the path, misguided by the blind: As for to flee the place, of thy decay, I n● mislike, (if that may work thine case.) Yet better were, this weed to root away, Which so infects, and fills thee with disease: For lust it is not love, that doth torment, Where love i● just, there still is found content. A Reply to the former Answer. Sonnet. III. Dear is my Love to me, as is my life, And ever whiles I live shall so remain; Ne can prevail a whit, thy friendly strife, Seeking to staunch my hearts love-bleeding vain. Leave then (dear Friend) thy words to waste in vain, Which so renew, the affections of the mind, My mind that proudly glories in my pain, Because it tells the world, I am not blind. Ne can my Love to those fair eyes decay, Though their clear beams, did first my soul disease, And rather will I still thus pine away, Then ransom with my love, my loves hearts ease; Pure is the love, which doth my life torment, My life so well bestowed, I die content. Blaspheme no more, against my Love so just, Hearts truly loving, cannot think on lust. To his trusty Friend Master William Talbet. Sonnet. FOUR Now will I write to satisfy thy will, Yet what thou least would read, that must I write; For Cynthia breathes the Theme into my quill, And what my hand layeth down, she doth indite. My will saith she (O Wretch) is that thou live, And ever live, in never-dying grief, Hard doom, which so denieth that Tyrants give, To hapless wretches, for their last relief. This Theme, I must delate and amplify, With tragic Stories, wrought by Fortune's spite, How with one fatal blade, both Lovers die, And of Leander drowned in Hero's sight. Thus of the dead, I sad examples borrow, To furnish out a Scene of living sorrow. Fail not, my vowed service to commend, To that sweet Lady, in whom virtue shines, Whom lest I should her judgement grave offend, I leave t'importune with mine idle Lines: Farewell & to thy trustee self retain, These senseless rave of a lovesick brain. 〈…〉 of Master William Talbet. Sonnet. FOUR I Will give thanks for this thy great good will, That bindest thyself, at my request to write, And well I like the subject of thy quill, Which in thy name, my passions doth indite: Well thou describest the state wherein I live, Nay how I the, in everliving grief: And though thy woes to mine, no help can give, Yet fellowship to misers is relief. join then with me, thou needest not amplify, With aged tales thy wrong and Fortune's spite, Since of like wounds, we both at once must die, And both our harms, procured by our sight; Thou writ we still, and though thy lines I borrow, Yet be affired I need not learn thy sorrow. I need not to that Lady thee commend, With praise, who can 〈◊〉, where virtue shines, Yet did thine errand, hast I should offend: She spoilt, perusing of our careless lines, And said, writ on, for if you should retain, These idle humours, they would break your brain. Master Thomas Shol●●●● answer to the 4. Madrig all of the first part, which beginneth: Sweet are my Cynthia's. etc. WHat wight saw captive style so comfortable, As that, which thou didst send to me this morn, Style, that t'enchant the gods themselves were able, O that such rare conceit should mask in sable, which ought with glory crowned, to be upborne, Unto the heavens, and placed at Ioues high table: Fortune, which evermore hath been unstable, Envied thy virtues, and thy great perfection, when she enchained thy heart, in such subjection, Of one, that is to pay thy love unable, with other thing, then dumb shows of affection. A Sonnet preferring the quiet life of the mean estate, to wealth and honours which procure envy, and for the more part accompanied with danger. Sweet is the life, that clad in base estate, far from the reach, of envies hateful sting, Devoid of malice, rancour, and debate, The chief attendants, on the court, and King, Doth yet enjoy, a quiet calm content, Estranged from the pomp of Prince's train, Unto whose bow, there may be found no bent. Ne bounds their high aspiring to contain: Such was the blissful life those shepherds led, Those harmless shepherds, that for love so mourned, Piping unto their flock, while that they fed On the green banks, by Flora Queen adorned; So, happy live they, though they live obscurely, who live contented, quiet, and securely. A Sonnet in Italian, made in commendation of the Author, and Persuading Cynthia to leave her sorrow. CYnthia quel ●igne che dite canoro Fe ris●onar all mondo'l chiaro nome, Lasciando in terra le terrene some. Salit' all ciel cant a nel' alto ch●r●. Ilor choronate di celest ' all●r● L'amato viso e quell aurate chiome I le sue fiere voglie haveangia doom, Inuita all premie deal mortal la●…re. Il or sent tuoi sospir' e'l piant'e dice, Non ti lagnar non ti guastar il vice Che tosto finir ann' it noi lamenti, Sarai tu come noi anchor felice, Alma gentle troth le beat menti Ebella piuche may in Paradis●. FINIS.