GEO. CHALMERS ESQ. F.R.S.S.A.  
〈◊〉 B●QUEST.   

THE PHOENIX NEST.  
Built up with the most rare and refined works of Noble men, worthy Knights, gallant Gentlemen, Masters of Arts, and brave Scholars.  
Full of variety, excellent invention, and singular delight.  
Never before this time published.  
Set forth by R.S. of the Inner Temple Gentleman.  
Imprinted at London, by john jackson. 1593.   

This Book containeth these 14. most special and worthy works.  

1 The dead man's Right.  
2 An excellent Elegy, with two special Epitaphs upon the death of sir Philip Sidney, pag. 1.  
3 The praise of Chastity, 12  
4 A Dialogue between Constancy and Inconstancy, 16  
5 A Garden plot, 21  
6 A Dream of Ladies & their Riddles, 23  
7 The Chess play, 28  
8 Another rare Dream, 31  
9 An excellent Passion, 63  
10 A notable description of the World, 77  
11 A Counterlove, 80  
12 A description of Love, 90  
13 A description of jealousy, 91  
14 The praise of Virginity, 93   
With other excellent and rare Ditties.   



A Preface to the Reader upon the dead man's Right.  
I Writ not (gentle Reader) to flatter, for the dead are not vainglorious: nor to gain, they reward not travels: for pride less, they are other men's virtues not mine own that I publish: for malice least of all, because I see how ill it becomes them to whom I writ. But I writ to admonish, and (if it might be) to amend vile and envious tongues: if not, I seek no other hire nor glory than the satisfaction of mine own conscience, by discharging the duty of a Christian. So far you well.   

The dead man's Right.  
Written upon the death of the Right Honourable the Earl of Leicester.  
IT is not unknown how wicked Libellors have most odiously sought the slander of our wise, grave, and Honourable superiors: divulging defamatory Libels, so full of immodest railings and audacious lies, as no indifferent Reader but may easily discover their envy, and judge of the verity: The Authors whereof, though in the quality of their offence (tending wholly to sedition) they have worthily deserved death, yet the substance of their Pamphlets have not merited answer.  
For want whereof some as evil affected as themselves, to whose hands mostly such books have come, are flattered with a poor advantage, imputing the wise and silent digesting of such inhonest and scurilous cartels to their guiltiness: when (simple as they are) who is else so foolish as knoweth not if all divulged were true, how easily Authority might excuse them, having pens and Presses at commandment, and power to patronize: Much more when so untrue as themselves ashamed of their falsehoods, dare not avouch them under their own names being without reach and fear of Authority.  
Amongst others, whose Honours these intemperate railers have sought to scandalise, none have more vildly been slandered than the late deceased Earl, the godly, loyal, wise, and grave Earl of Leicester: Against whom (void of all just touch of dishonour) they forged millions of impieties, abusing the people by their devilish fictions, and wicked wresting of his actions, all to bring his virtues & person in popular hatred.  
Which though he during his life meekly bare as a man untouched, without publishing defence of his innocency. Yet because the tongues of men irritated to envy by the instruments of those libellers, being without fear of controlment, sith his death are become over scandalous and at too much liberty. It shall not be amiss to persuade more modesty and piety of speech.  
And for as much as I perceive the greatest and most general objection they have to blemish his honour, is but an opinion of his ambition and aspiring mind, wherewith the capital and cardinal Libellor of them all hath cunningly infected the ignorant that knew not the state of his honours: Let us see how he may justly be touched.  
Did he ever assume unto himself any vain or unlawful title, or was unsatiate of rule? Did he purchase his honours otherwise than by his virtues, or were they so extraordinary, as now or in times past they have not been equaled in others inferior unto him in condition of birth, and more in desert? If not? I marvel the father of this pestilent invention blush not as red as his cap, and his children be not ashamed of his falsehood.  
Admit this worthy Earls and our most gracious Sovereign who wisely judged of his virtues, and worthily rewarded his loyalty and pains, did honour him with titles above others of his time: (in humble and seemly sort, I speak it without comparison) who every way was more fit for the dignity he bore, and more complete to accomplish them: whereof the Libellor could not be ignorant, but that too much yielding to his malice, he sought to slander this notable testimony of his Excellency.  
Such rather would I judge ambitious, as for promotions whether Ecclesiastical or Temporal, having once conceived a hope of greatness, without regard of conscience or Country, with voluntary hazard of all things pursue the same, by shameful, traitorous, and ungodly means, exasperating their natural Prince and superior Magistrates by rebellious and seditious Libels. These be the true tokens of an aspiring mind, whose nature is to hinder by malice, where it can not hurt by power.  
But leaving further pursuit of their malice, I will remember this Earl's worthiness. For the first and principal virtue of his virtues, his Religion, it shall be needless to speak much, sith all Christendom knows he professed one Faith, and worshipped one only God, whom he served in uprightness of life, and defended with hazard thereof in arms and action against his enemies. How he succoured and relieved distressed members of the Church, I leave to those that have made proof, who ought in duty to make relation thereof.  
Next I think there is none that will, dare, or can impeach his loyalty, either in fact or faith, sufficiently testified by her majesties gracious love to whom that belonged, as also by his dutiful and careful service unto her. So as further narration thereof shall not need.  
His wisdom by the gravity of his place, the causes he managed, and the carriage of his person, is approved not only unto us, but to most nations of the world.  
lastly of his valour and affection to his Country's peace, no honest mind but is satisfied: whereof what greater testimony can we require than the travels his aged body undertook, and dangers the same was subject unto in the wars of the Low Countries, where he voluntarily offered his person in combat against the devoted enemies of this state and her Majesty. Leaving his Wife, possessions, and home, not regarding his safety, riches, and ease, in respect of the godly, honourable, and loving care he bore the common quiet.  
All which the ungrateful Malcontents of this time, on whom any thing is ill bestowed (much more the travels of so memorable a Noble) spared not to reproach: Hiring the tongues of runaways and rogues, such as neither fear God nor the devil, or are worth a home, to proclaim hateful and envious lies against him, in alehouses, fairs, markets, and such assemblies.  
At whose return when his dealings were truly discussed, and truth overcame their slanders, this was the refuge of their whispering malice: His greatness and smooth tongue (say they) bears it away: as if Honour once lost in act, could be hidden by greatness, or recovered by grace and eloquence of speech. Both which taken away by his happy death, and our unhappy loss, he is sithence more cleared than before.  
Marvel not then at their envy, sith, Virtutis comes invidia, but detest the envious, that thus blaspheme virtues, whom (for mine own part) as I see measure their rage, so will I judge of their affection to the state: for undoubtedly none but the discontented with the time, or such as he hath justly punished for their lewdness, will thus calumniously interpret his proceed.  
If I meant to write a discourse of this Earl's life, or an Apology in his defence, I would proceed more orderly in repetition of his virtues, and more effectually in answer of their poisoned Libels: But as mine intent at first was only to admonish lose tongues (such as mine ears have glowed to hear of) and forewarn the over credulous that are easily abused, having finished my purpose, if it effects amendment, I shall be glad, if not, their shames be on their own heads.  
Beseeching God this Realm feel not the want of him already dead, and greater judgements ensue for our unthankfulness.  
LEICESTER he lived, of all the world admired,  
Not as a man, though he in shape excelled:  
But as a God, whose heavenly wit inspired,  
Wrought high effects, yet virtues courses held,  
His wisdom honoured his Country's name,  
His valour was the vanguard of the same.    

An Elegy, or friends passion, for his Astrophill.  
Written upon the death of the right Honourable sir Philip Sidney knight, Lord governor of Flushing.  

AS then, no wind at all there blue,  
No swelling cloud, accloye the air,  
The sky, like glass of watchet hue,  
Reflected Phoebus' golden hair,  
The garnished tree, no pendant stirred,  
No voice was heard of any bird.   

There might you see the burly Bear,  
The Lion king, the Elephant,  
The maiden Unicorn was there,  
So was Actaeon's horned plant,  
And what of wild or tame are found,  
Were couched in order on the ground.   

Alcides' speckled poplar tree,  
The palm that Monarches do obtain,  
With Love juice stained the mulberry,  
The fruit that dews the Poet's brain,  
And Phillis philbert there away,  
Compared with myrtle and the bay.   

The tree that coffins doth adorn,  
With stately height threatening the sky,  
And for the bed of Love forlorn,  
The black and doleful Ebony,  
All in a circle compassed were,  
Like to an amphitheatre.   

Upon the branches of those trees,  
The airy winged people sat,  
Distinguished in odd degrees,  
One sort in this, another that,  
Here Philomel, that knows full well,  
What force and wit in love doth dwell.   

The sky bred Egle royal bird,  
Perched there upon an oak above,  
The Turtle by him never stirred,  
Example of immortal love.  
The swan that sings about to die,  
Leaving Meander stood thereby.   

And that which was of wonder most,  
The Phoenix left sweet Arabia:  
And on a Cedar in this coast,  
Built up her tomb of spicery,  
As I conjecture by the same,  
Prepared to take her dying flame.   

In midst and centre of this plot,  
I saw one groveling on the grass:  
A man or stone, I knew not that,  
No stone, of man the figure was,  
And yet I could not count him one,  
More than the image made of stone.   

At length I might perceive him rear  
His body on his elbow end:  
Earthly and pale with ghastly cheer,  
Upon his knees he upward tend,  
Seeming like one in uncouth stound,  
To be ascending out the ground.   

A grievous sigh forthwith he throws,  
As might have torn the vital strings,  
Then down his cheeks the tears so flows,  
As doth the stream of many springs.  
So thunder rends the cloud in twain,  
And makes a passage for the rain.   

Incontinent with trembling sound,  
He woefully 'gan to complain,  
Such were the accents as might wound,  
And tear a diamond rock in twain,  
After his throbs did somewhat stay,  
Thus heavily he 'gan to say.   

O sun (said he) seeing the sun,  
On wretched me why dost thou shine,  
My star is fallen, my comfort done,  
Out is the apple of my eine,  
Shine upon those possess delight,  
And let me live in endless night.   

O grief that liest upon my soul,  
As heavy as a mount of lead,  
The remnant of my life control,  
Consort me quickly with the dead,  
Half of this heart, this spirit and will,  
Died in the breast of Astrophill.   

And you compassionate of my woe,  
Gentle birds, beasts and shady trees,  
I am assured ye long to know,  
What be the sorrows me agreeu's,  
Listen ye then to that insu'th,  
And hear a tale of tears and ruth.   

You knew, who knew not Astrophill,  
(That I should live to say I knew,  
And have not in possession still)  
Things known permit me to renew,  
Of him you know his merit such,  
I cannot say, you hear too much.   

Within these woods of Arcady,  
He chief delight and pleasure took,  
And on the mountain Parthenie,  
Upon the crystal liquid brook,  
The Muses met him every day,  
That taught him sing, to write, and say.   

When he descended down the mount,  
His parsonage seemed most divine,  
A thousand graces one might count,  
Upon his lovely cheerful eine,  
To hear him speak and sweetly smile,  
You were in Paradise the while.   

A sweet attractive kind of grace,  
A full assurance given by looks,  
Continual comfort in a face,  
The lineaments of Gospel books,  
I trow that countenance cannot lie,  
Whose thoughts are legible in the eye.   

Was never eye, did see that face,  
Was never ear, did hear that tongue,  
Was never mind, did mind his grace,  
That ever thought the travel long,  
But eyes, and ears, and every thought,  
Were with his sweet perfections caught.   

O God, that such a worthy man,  
In whom so rare deserts did reign,  
Desired thus, must leave us than,  
And we to wish for him in vain,  
O could the stars that bred that wit,  
In force no longer fixed sit.   

Then being filled with learned dew,  
The Muses willed him to love,  
That instrument can aptly show,  
How finely our conceits will move,  
As Bacchus opes dissembled hearts,  
So love sets out our better parts.   

Stella, a Nymph within this wood,  
Most rare and rich of heavenly bliss,  
The highest in his fancy stood,  
And she could well demerit this,  
'tis likely they acquainted soon,  
He was a Sun, and she a Moon.   

Our Astrophill did Stella love,  
O Stella vaunt of Astrophill,  
Albeit thy grace's gods may move,  
Where wilt thou find an Astrophill,  
The rose and lily have their prime,  
And so hath beauty but a time.   

Although thy beauty do exceed,  
In common sight of every eye,  
Yet in his Poesies when we reed,  
It is apparent more thereby,  
He that hath love and judgement too,  
Sees more than any other do.   

Then Astrophill hath honoured thee,  
For when thy body is extinct,  
Thy graces shall eternal be,  
And live by virtue of his ink,  
For by his verses he doth give,  
To short lived beauty aye to live.   

Above all others this is he,  
Which erst approved in his song,  
That love and honour might agree,  
And that pure love will do no wrong,  
Sweet saints it is no sin nor blame,  
To love a man of virtuous name.   

Did never love so sweetly breath  
In any mortal breast before,  
Did never muse inspire beneath,  
A Poet's brain with finer store:  
He wrote of love with high conceit,  
And beauty reared above her height.   

Then Pallas afterward attired,  
Our Astrophill with her device,  
Whom in his armour heaven admired,  
As of the nation of the skies,  
He sparkled in his arms afar,  
As he were dight with fiery stars.   

The blaze whereof when Mars beheld,  
(An envious eye doth see afar)  
Such majesty (quoth he) is ceil,  
Such majesty my mart may mar,  
Perhaps this may a suitor be,  
To set Mars by his deity.   

In this surmise he made with speed,  
An iron cane wherein he put,  
The thunder that in clouds do breed,  
The flame and bolt together shut.  
With privy force burst out again,  
And so our Astrophill was slain.   

This word (was slain) straightway did move,  
And natures inward life strings twitch,  
The sky immediately above,  
Was dimmed with hideous clouds of pitch,  
The wrestling winds from out the ground,  
Filled all the air with rattling sound.   

The bending trees expressed a groan,  
And sighed the sorrow of his fall,  
The forest beasts made ruthful moan,  
The birds did tune their mourning call,  
And Philomel for Astrophill,  
Unto her notes annexed a phill.   

The turtle dove with tunes of ruth,  
Showed feeling passion of his death,  
Me thought she said I tell thee truth,  
Was never he that drew in breath,  
Unto his love more trusty found,  
Than he for whom our griefs abound.   

The swan that was in presence here,  
Began his funeral dirge to sing,  
Good things (quoth he) may scarce appear,  
But pass away with speedy wing.  
This mortal life as death is tried,  
And death gives life, and so he died.   

The general sorrow that was made,  
Among the creatures of kind,  
Fired the Phoenix where she laid,  
Her ashes flying with the wind,  
So as I might with reason see,  
That such a Phoenix near should be.   

Haply the cinders driven about,  
May breed an offspring near that kind,  
But hardly a peer to that I doubt,  
It cannot sink into my mind,  
That under branches ere can be,  
Of worth and value as the tree.   

The Eagle marked with piercing sight,  
The mournful habit of the place,  
And parted thence with mounting flight,  
To signify to jove the case,  
What sorrow nature doth sustain,  
For Astrophill by envy slain.   

And while I followed with mine eye,  
The flight the Eagle upward took,  
All things did vanish by and by,  
And disappeered from my look,  
The trees, beasts, birds, and grove was gone,  
So was the friend that made this moan.   

This spectacle had firmly wrought,  
A deep compassion in my sprite,  
My molting heart issued me thought,  
In streams forth at mine eyes aright,  
And here my pen is forced to shrink,  
My tears discolours so mine ink.    

An Epitaph upon the right Honourable sir Philip Sidney knight: Lord governor of Flushing.  

TO praise thy life, or wail thy worthy death,  
And want thy wit, thy wit high, pure, divine,  
Is far beyond the power of mortal line,  
Nor any one hath worth that draweth breath.   

Yet rich in zeal, though poor in learning's lore,  
And friendly care obscured in secret breast,  
And love that envy in thy life suppressed,  
Thy dear life done, and death hath doubled more.   

And I, that in thy time and living state,  
Did only praise thy virtues in my thought,  
As one that seld the rising sun hath sought,  
With words and tears now wail thy timeless fate.   

Drawn was thy race, aright from princely line,  
Nor less than such, (by gifts that nature gave,  
The common mother that all creatures have,)  
Doth virtue show, and princely lineage shine.   

A king gave thee thy name, a kingly mind,  
That God thee gave, who found it now too dear  
For this base world, and hath resumde it near,  
To sit in skies, and sort with powers divine.   

Kent thy birth days, and Oxford held thy youth,  
The heavens made haste, & staid nor years, nor time,  
The fruits of age grew ripe in thy first prime,  
Thy will, thy words; thy words, the seals of truth.   

Great gifts and wisdom rare employed thee thence,  
To treat from kings, with those more great than kings,  
Such hope men had to lay the highest things,  
On thy wise youth, to be transported hence.   

Whence to sharp wars sweet honour did thee call,  
Thy country's love, religion, and thy friends:  
Of worthy men, the marks, the lives and ends,  
And her defence, for whom we labour all.   

There didst thou vanquish shame and tedious age,  
Grief, sorrow, sickness, and base fortunes might:  
Thy rising day, saw never woeful night,  
But past with praise, from of this worldly stage.   

Back to the camp, by thee that day was brought,  
First thine own death, and after thy long fame;  
Tears to the soldiers, the proud Castilians shame;  
Virtue expressed, and honour truly taught.   

What hath he lost, that such great grace hath won,  
Young years, for endless years, and hope unsure,  
Of fortune's gifts, for wealth that still shall dure,  
Oh happy race with so great praises run.   

England doth hold thy limbs that bred the same,  
Flaunders thy valour where it last was tried,  
The Camp thy sorrow where thy body died,  
Thy friends, thy want; the world, thy virtues fame.   

Nations thy wit, our minds lay up thy love,  
Letters thy learning, thy loss, years long to come,  
In worthy heart's sorrow hath made thy tomb,  
Thy soul and sprite enrich the heavens above.   

Thy liberal heart embalmed in grateful tears.  
Young sighs, sweet sighs, sage sighs, bewail thy fall,  
Envy her sting, and spite hath left her gall,  
Malice herself, a mourning garment wears.   

That day their Hannibal died, our Scipio fell,  
Scipio, Cicero, and Petrarch of our time,  
Whose virtues wounded by my worthless rhyme,  
Let Angels speak, and heavens thy praises tell.    

Another of the same.  
Excellently written by a most worthy Gentleman.  

SIlence augmenteth grief, writing increaseth rage,  
stalled are my thoughts, which loved, & lost, the wonder of our age,  
Yet quickened now with fire, though dead with frost ere now,  
Enraged I writ, I know not what: dead, quick, I know not how.   

Hard hearted minds relent, and rigours tears abound,  
And envy strangely rues his end, in whom no fault she found,  
Knowledge her light hath lost, valour hath slain her knight,  
Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is the world's delight.   

Place pensive wails his fall, whose presence was her pride,  
Time crieth out, my ebb is come: his life was my spring tide,  
Fame mourns in that she lost, the ground of her reports,  
Each living wight laments his lack, and all in sundry sorts.   

He was (woe worth that word) to each well thinking mind,  
A spotless friend, a matchless man, whose virtue ever shined,  
Declaring in his thoughts, his life, and that he writ,  
Highest conceits, longest foresights, and deepest works of wit.   

He only like himself, was second unto none,  
Whose death (though life) we rue, & wrong, & all in vain do moan,  
Their loss, not him wail they, that fill the world with cries,  
Death slew not him, but he made death his ladder to the skies.   

Now sink of sorrow I, who live, the more the wrong,  
Who wishing death, whom death denies, whose thread is all to long,  
Who tied to wretched life, who looks for no relief,  
Must spend my ever dying days, in never ending grief.   

Heart's ease and only I, like parables run on,  
Whose equal length, keep equal breadth, & never meet in one,  
Yet for not wronging him, my thoughts, my sorrows cell,  
Shall not run out, though leak they will, for liking him so well.   

Farewell to you my hopes, my wont waking dreams,  
Farewell sometimes enjoyed joy, eclipsed are thy beams,  
Farewell self pleasing thoughts, which quietness brings forth,  
And farewell friendships sacred league, uniting minds of worth.   

And farewell merry heart, the gift of guiltless minds,  
And all sports, which for lives restore, variety assigns,  
Let all that sweet is, void? in me no mirth may dwell,  
Philip, the cause of all this woe, my lives content farewell.   

Now rhyme, the son of rage, which art no kin to skill,  
And endless grief, which deads' my life, yet knows not how to kill,  
Go seek that hapless tomb, which if ye hap to find,  
Salute the stones, that keep the limbs, that held so good a mind.    

The praise of Chastity.  
Wherein is set forth by way of comparison, how great is the conquest over our affections, by G. P. Master of Arts.  

THe noble Romans whilom wonted were,  
For triumph of their conquered enemies,  
The wreaths of Laurel, and of Palm to wear,  
In honour of their famous victories,   

And so in robes of gold, and purple dight,  
Like bodies shrined, in seats of juotie,  
Their names renowned for happiness in fight,  
They bear the guerdon of their chivalry.   

The valiant Greeks, for sack of Priam's town,  
A work of manhood, matched with policy,  
Have filled the world with books of their renown,  
As much as erst the Roman empery.   

The Phrygian knights, that in the house of fame,  
Have shining arms of endless memory,  
By hot and fierce repulse did win the same,  
Though Helen's rape, hurt Paris progeny.   

Thus strength hath guerdon, by the world's award,  
So praise we birth, and high nobility,  
If then the mind, and body reap reward,  
For nature's dower, conferred liberally.   

Press then for praise, unto the highest room,  
That art the highest of the gifts of heaven,  
More beautiful by wisdoms sacred doom,  
Than Sol himself, amid the Planets seven.   

Queen of content, and temperate desires,  
Choice nurse of health, thy name hight Chastity,  
A sovereign power to quench such climbing fires,  
As choke the mind, with smoke of infamy.   

Champion at arms, re'ncounter with thy foe,  
An enemy foul, and fearful to behold,  
If then stout captains have been honoured so,  
Their names in books of memory enrolled,   

For puissant strength: ye Roman peers retire,  
And Greeks give ground, more honour there is won,  
With chaste rebukes to temper thy desire,  
Than glory gained the world to over run.   

Than fierce Achilles got, by Hector's spoil,  
Than erst the mighty prince of Macedon,  
King Philip's imp, that put his foes to foil,  
And wished more worlds to hold him play than one.   

Believe me to contend 'gainst armies royal,  
To tame wild Panthers but by strength of hand,  
To praise the triumph, not so special,  
As 'ticing pleasures charms for to withstand.   

And for me list compare with men of war,  
For honour of the field, I dare maintain,  
This victory exceedeth that as far,  
As Phoebus' chariot Vulcan's forge doth stain.   

Both noble, and triumphant in their kinds,  
And matter worthy queen Remembrance pen,  
But that that tangles both our thoughts and minds,  
To master that, is more than over men,   

To make thy triumph. Sith to strength alone,  
Of body it belongs, to bruise or wound,  
But raging thoughts, to quell, or few, or none,  
Save virtues imps, are able champions found.   

Or those whom jove hath loved? or noble of birth,  
So strong Alcides, Jove's unconquered son,  
Did lift Achelous' body from the earth,  
To show what deeds by virtues strength are done.   

So him he foiled, and put to sudden flight,  
By aim of wit, the foul Stymphalideses?  
And while we say he mastered men by might,  
Behold in person of this Hercules.   

It liketh me to figure Chastity,  
His labour like that foul unclean desire,  
That under guide of tickling fantasy,  
Would mar the mind, through pleasures scorching fire.   

And who hath seen a fair alluring face,  
A lusty girl, y clad in quaint array,  
Whose dainty hand, makes music with her lace,  
And tempts thy thoughts, and steals thy sense away.   

Whose 'ticing hair, like nets of golden wire,  
Enchain thy heart, whose gate and voice divine,  
Inflame thy blood, and kindle thy desire,  
Whose features wrap and dazzle humane eine.   

Who hath beheld fair Venus in her pride,  
Of nakedness all Alabaster white,  
In ivory bed, straight laid by Mars his side,  
And hath not been enchanted with the sight,   

To wish, to dally, and to offer game,  
To coy, to court, & caetera to do:  
(Forgive me Chasteness if in terms of shame,  
To thy renown, I paint what longs thereto)   

Who hath not lived, and yet hath seen I say,  
That might offend chaste hearers to endure,  
Who hath been haled on, to touch, and play,  
And yet not stowpt to pleasures wanton lure.   

Crown him with laurel, for his victory,  
Clad him in purple, and in scarlet die?  
enrol his name in books of memory,  
Ne let the honour of his conquest die.   

More royal in his triumph, than the man,  
Whom tigers drew in coach of burnished gold,  
In whom the Roman Monarchy began,  
Whose works of worth, no wit hath erst controlled.   

Elysium be his walk, high heaven his shrine,  
His drink, sweet Nectar, and Ambrosia,  
The food that makes immortal and divine,  
Be his to taste, to make him live for ay:   

And that I may in brief describe his due,  
What lasting honour virtues guerdon is,  
So much and more his just desert pursue,  
Sith his desert awards it to be his.   

LENVOY.  

To thee in honour of whose government,  
Entitled is this praise of Chastity,  
My gentle friend, these hasty lines are meant,  
So flowreth virtue like the laurel tree,  
Immortal green, that ever eye may see,  
And well was Daphne turned into the bay,  
Whose chasteness triumphs, grows, & lives for ay.     

An excellent Dialogue between Constancy and Inconstancy, as it was by speech presented to her Majesty, in the last Progress at sir Henry Leighes house.  Constancy. 
MOst excellent: shall I say Lady, or Goddess? whom I should envy to be but a Lady, and can not deny to have the power of a Goddess? vouchsafe to accept the humble thankfulness of us lately distressed Ladies, the pride of whose wits was justly punished with the inconstancy of our wits; whereby we were carried to delight, as in nothing more than to love, so in nothing so much as to change lovers; which punishment, though it were only due to our descents, yet did it light most heavily upon those knights, who following us with the heat of their affection, had neither grace to get us, nor power to leave us. Now since by that more than mortal power of your more than human wisdom, the enchanted tables are read, and both they and we released, let us be punished with more than inconstancy, if we fail either to love constantly, or to alienize your memory.  Inconstancy. 
Not to be thankful to so great a person, for so great a benefit, might argue as little judgement, as ill nature: and therefore though it be my place to speak after you, I will strive in thankfulness to go before you, but yet rather for my liberty, because I may be as I list, than for any mind I have to be more constant than I was.  Const. 
If you have no mind to be constant, what is the benefit of your deliverance?  Inconst. 
As I told you before, my liberty, which I love better than myself; for though I love inconstancy as myself, and had as leeve not be, as not be unconstant; yet can I not but hate that which I love; but when I am enforced unto it: and (by your leave) as dainty as you make of the matter, I am persuaded that you would even hate yourself, if you were but wedded unto yourself.  Const. 
self-love is not the love that we talk of, but rather the kind of knitting of two hearts in one, of which sort if you had a faithful lover, what should you lose by being faithful unto him?  Inconst. 
More than you shall get by being so.  Const. 
I seek nothing but him to whom I am constant.  Inconst. 
And even him shall you lose by being constant.  Const. 
What reason have you for that?  Inconst. 
No other reason than that which is drawn from the common places of love, which is for the most part, reason beyond reason.  Const. 
You may rather call it reason without reason; if they conclude that love and faith, the more they have, the less they shall find.  Inconst. 
Will you believe your own experience?  Const. 
far beyond your reason.  Inconst. 
Have you not then found amongst your lovers, that they would fly you, if you do but follow them, and follow you most, when you do most fly them?  Const. 
I grant I have found it too true in some, but I now speak of a constant lover indeed.  Inconst. 
You may better speak of him than find him; but the only way to have him, is, to be unconstant.  Const. 
How so?  Inconst. 
I have heard Philosophers say, that Inquisito termino cessat motus, there is no motion (and you know love is a motion) but it ceaseth (or rather dieth) when it hath gotten his end; and to say the truth, love hath no edge when it is assured, whose very food and life is hope, and the hope of having, is dull without the fear of losing, where there are no rivals.  Const. 
But the more constant he finds me, the more careful he will be to deserve well of me.  Inconst. 
You deceive yourself with that conceit, and give him no small advantage to range where he listeth, when you let him know you are at his devotion, whom you shall be sure to have at yours, if by an indifferent carriage of yourself, you breed an emulation between him and others.  Const. 
It were against nature for her which is but one, to love more than one, and if it be a fault to bear a double heart, what is it to divide the heart among many.  Inconst. 
I ask no other judge than nature, especially in this matter of love, than which there is nothing more natural, and surely for any thing that I can see, nature delighteth in nothing so much, as in variety; and it were hard, that since she hath appointed variety of colours for the eye, variety of sounds for the ear, variety of meats for the mouth, and variety of other things for every other sense, she should bind the heart (to which all the rest do service) to the love of one any more, than she bindeth the eye to one colour, the ear to one sound, or the mouth to one kind of meat.  Const. 
Neither doth she deny the heart variety of choice, she only requires constancy when it hath chosen.  Inconst. 
What if we commit an error in our choice?  Const. 
It is no fault to choose where we like.  Inconst. 
But if our liking vary, may we not be better advised?  Const. 
When you have once chosen, you must turn your eyes inward, to look only on him whom you have placed in your heart.  Inconst. 
Why then I perceive you have not yet chosen, for your eyes look outward, but as long as your eyes stand in your head as they do, I doubt not but to find you inconstant.  Const. 
I do not deny but I look upon others beside him that I love best, but they are all as dead pictures unto me, for any power they have to touch my heart.  Inconst. 
If they were but (as you account them) dead pictures, I do not doubt, but they would make an other Pygmalion of you, rather than you would be bound to the love of one only; but what if that one prove inconstant?  Const. 
I had rather the fault should be his than mine.  Inconst. 
It is a small comfort to say the fault is his, when the loss is yours, but how can you avoid the fault, who can help it and will not?  Const. 
I see no way to help it, but by breach of faith, which I hold dearer than my life.  Inconst. 
What is the band of your faith?  Const. 
My word.  Inconst. 
Your word is but wind, and no sooner spoken than gone.  Const. 
Yet doth it bind, to see what is spoken, done.  Inconst. 
You can do little, if you cannot master your word.  Const. 
I should do less, if my word did not master me.  Inconst. 
It masters you indeed, for it makes you a slave.  Const. 
To none but one, whom I choose to serve.  Inconst. 
It is baseness to serve, though it be but one.  Const. 
More base to dissemble with more than one.  Inconst. 
When you love all alike, you dissemble with none.  Const. 
But if I love many, will any love me?  Inconst. 
No doubt there will, and so much the more, by how much the more they are that strive for you.  Const. 
But the heart that is every where, is indeed nowhere,  Inconst. 
If you speak of a man's heart, I grant it to be true; but as for the heart of a woman, it is like a soul in a body; Tota in toto, & tota in qualibet part: that though you had as many lovers, as you have fingers and toes, you might be but one amongst them all, and yet wholly every once: but because I see you are perversely devoted to the cold sincerity of imaginary constancy, I leave you to be as you may, and purpose myself to be as I list: Nevertheless, to your Majesty, by whom I have obtained this liberty, in token of my thankfulness, I offer this simple work of mine own hands, which you may wear as you please, but I made it after mine own mind to be worn lose.  Const. 
And I who by your coming am not only set at liberty, but made partaker also of constancy, do present you with as unworthy a work of mine own hands, which yet I hope you will better accept, because it will serve to bind the looseness of that inconstant dames token.  Inconst. 
To bind the looseness, and that of an inconstant dame, say no more than you know, for you know not so much as I feel; well may we bewray ourselves between ourselves, as thinking we have said nothing, until we have said all. But now, a greater power worketh in me, than your or my reason, which draweth me from the circle of my fancies, to the centre of constant love, there representing unto me what contentment it is, to love but one, and how desire is satisfied with no number, when once it delighteth in more than one.  Const. 
I am not, I cannot be as I was, the leave that I did take of myself, is to leave myself, and to change, or rather to be changed to that estate which admitteth no change: by the secret power of her, which though she were content to let me be carried almost out of breath with the wind of inconstancy, doth now in her silence put me to silence, and by the glory of her countenance, which disperseth the flying clouds of vain conceits, commands me too with others, and to be myself as she is, Semper eadem.   


The Preamble to N.B. his Garden plot.  

Sweet fellow whom I swore, such sure affected love,  
As neither weal, nor woe, nor want, can from my mind remove:  
To thee my fellow sweet, this woeful tale I tell,  
To let thee see the dark distress, wherein my mind doth dwell.   

On loathed bed I lay, my lustless limbs to rest,  
Where still I tumble to and fro, to seek which side were best:  
At last I catch a place, where long I cannot lie,  
But strange conceits from quiet sleeps, do keep awake mine eye.   

The time of year me seems, doth bid me sloven rise,  
And not from show of sweet delight, to shut my sleepy eyes:  
But sorrow by and by, doth bid me slave lie still,  
And slug amongst the wretched souls, whom care doth seek to kill.   

For sorrow is my spring, which brings forth bitter tears,  
The fruits of friendship all forlorn, as feeble fancy fears.    

A strange description of a rare Garden plot, Written by N. B. Gent.  

MY garden ground of grief: where self wills seeds are sown,  
Whereof comes up the weeds of woe, that joys have overgrown:  
With patience paled round, to keep in secret spite:  
And quick set round about with care, to keep out all delight,   

Four quarters squared out, I find in sundry sort;  
Whereof according to their kinds, I mean to make report:  
The first, the knot of love, drawn even by true desire,  
Like as it were two hearts in one, and yet both would be nigher.   

The herb is called Isop, the juice of such a taste,  
As with the sour, makes sweet conceits to fly away too fast:  
The borders round about, are set with privy sweet,  
Where never bird but nightingale, presumed to set her feet.   

From this I stepped aside, unto the knot of care,  
Which so was crossed with strange conceits, as tongue cannot declare:  
The herb was called Time, which set out all that knot:  
And like a Maze me thought it was, when in the crooks I got.   

The borders round about, are savoury unsweet:  
An herb not much in my conceit, for such a knot unmeet:  
From this to friendship's knot, I stepped and took the view,  
How it was drawn, and then again, in order how it grew.   

The course was not unlike, a kind of hand in hand:  
But many fingers were away, that there should seem to stand:  
The herb that set the knot, was Penny rial round:  
And as me seemed, it grew full close, and near unto the ground.   

And parched here and there, so that it seemed not  
Full as it should have been in deed, a perfect friendship knot:  
Heerat I pawsd awhile, and took a little view  
Of an odd quarter drawn in beds, where herbs and flowers grew.   

The flowers were buttons fine, for bachelors to bear,  
And by those flowers there grew an herb, was called maiden hear.   

Amid this garden ground, a Conduit strange I found,  
Which water fetched from sorrows spring, to water all the ground:  
To this my heavy house, the dungeon of distress,  
Where fainting heart lies panting still, despairing of redress.   

Whence from my window lo, this sad prospect I have,  
A piece of ground whereon to gaze, would bring one to his grave:  
Lo thus the welcome spring, that others lends delight,  
Doth make me die, to think I lie, thus drowned in despite,   

That up I cannot rise, and come abroad to thee,  
My fellow sweet, with whom God knows, how oft I wish to be:  
And thus in haste adieu, my heart is grown so sore,  
And care so crooks my fingers ends, that I can write no more.     

An excellent Dream of Ladies and their Riddles: by N. B. Gent.  

IN Orchard grounds, where store of fruit trees grew,  
Me thought a Saint was walking all alone,  
Of every tree, she seemed to take her view,  
But in the end, she plucked but of one:  
This fruit quoth she, doth like my fancy best:  
Sweetings are fruit, but let that apple rest.   

Such fruit (quoth I) shall fancy chief feed:  
Indeed 'tis fair, God grant it prove as good,  
But take good heed, lest all to late it breed  
Ill humours such as may infect your blood:  
Yet take and taste, but look you know the tree:  
Peace fool quoth she, and so awaked me.   

What was this ground, wherein this dame did walk?  
And what was she, that rome to and fro?  
And what meant I, to use such kind of talk?  
And what meant she, to check and snib me so?  
But what mean I? alas, I was asleep:  
Awake I swear, I will more silence keep.  
Well thus I waked and fell asleep again:  
And then I fell into another vain.   

Great wars me thought grew late by strange mishap,  
Desire had stolen out of Diana's train,  
Her darling dear, and laid on Venus' lap,  
Who, Cupid swore should never back again.  
Ere he would so lose all his heart's delight,  
He vowed to die, wherewith began a fight.   

Diana shot, and Cupid shot again:  
Fame sounded out her trump with heavenly cheer:  
Hope was ill hurt, despite was only slain:  
Diana forced in fine for to retire.  
Cupid caught fame, and brought her to his friend:  
The trumpet ceased, and so my dream did end.   

Thus scarce awake, I fell asleep again,  
And then I was within a garden ground,  
Beset with flowers, the allies even and plain:  
And all the banks beset with roses round,  
And sundry flowers so supper sweet of smell,  
As there me thought it was a heaven to dwell.   

Where walking long, anon I 'gan espy  
Sweet pretty souls, that plucked each one a flower:  
When from their sight I hid me by and by,  
Behind a bank within a brier bower:  
Where after walk, I saw them where they sat:  
Beheld their hues, and heard their pretty chat:   

Sister quoth one, how shall we spend this day?  
Devise (quoth she) some pretty merry jest:  
Content quoth one, beshrew them that say nay:  
Some purposes or riddles I think best:  
Riddles cried all, and so the sport begun:  
Forfeit a fillip, she that first hath done.   

Lo thus a while was curtsy to propound,  
Yet in the end this order did they take,  
By two and two, they should sit close and round;  
And one begin, another answer make:  
Whose riddling sports in order as I can,  
I will recite, and thus the first began.   

The first Riddle.  
Within a gallant plot of ground,  
There grows a flower that hath no name,  
The like whereof was never found,  
And none but one can pluck the same:  
Now where this ground or flower doth grow,  
Or who that one, 'tis hard to know.  

The Answer.  
Sister (quoth she) if thou wouldst know  
This ground, this flower, and happy man,  
Walk in this garden to and fro:  
Here you shall see them now and than:  
Which when you find to your delight,  
Then think I hit your riddle right.    

The second Riddle.  
Within a field there grows a flower,  
That decks the ground where as it grows,  
It springs and falls, both in an hour,  
And but at certain times it shows:  
It never dies, and seldom seen,  
And 'tis a Nosegay for a Queen.  

The Answer.  
This field is favour, Grace the ground,  
Whence springs the flower of courtesy,  
Soon grown and gone though sometime found,  
Not dead, but hid, from flatterers eye,  
That pick thanks may not pluck the same:  
Thus have I red your riddle Dame.    

The third Riddle.  
Within a flower a seed there grows,  
Which sometime falls, but seldom springs,  
And if it spring, it seldom blows,  
And if it blow, no sweet it brings,  
And therefore counted but a weed:  
Now guess the flower, and what the seed.  

The Answer.  
In fancy's flower is sorrows seed,  
Which sometimes falls, but springs but seld,  
And if it spring, 'tis but a weed,  
Which doth no sweet, nor savour yield,  
And yet the flower, both fair and sweet,  
And for a Prince's garden meet.    

The fourth Riddle.  
Within a seed doth poison lurk,  
Which only Spiders feed upon,  
And yet the Bee can wisely work,  
To suck out honey, poison gone:  
Which honey, poison, Spider, Bee,  
Are hard to guess, yet each to see.  

The Answer.  

In sorrows seed is secret pain,  
Which spite the Spider only sucks,  
Which poison gone, then witty brain  
The wily Bee, her honey plucks,  
And bears it to her hive unhurt,  
When spider trod, dies in the dirt.     

Gramercy wench (quoth she) that first begone,  
Each one me seems hath quit herself right well,  
And now since that our riddles all are done,  
Let us go sing the flower of sweetest smell:  
Well may it far, wherewith each took a part,  
And thus they song, all with a merry heart.   

Blessed be the ground that first brought forth the flower,  
Whose name untold, but virtues not unknown:  
Happy the hand, whom God shall give the power,  
To pluck this flower, and take it for his own:  
Oh heavenly stalk, that stains all where it grows:  
From whom more sweet, than sweetest honey flows.   

Oh sweet of sweets, the sweetest sweet that is:  
Oh flower of flowers, that yields so sweet a scent:  
Oh sent so sweet, as when the head shall miss:  
Oh heavens what heart but that will sore lament:  
God let thee spring, and flourish so each hour,  
As that our sweets may never turn to sour.   

For we with sweets do feed our fancies so,  
With sweets of sight, and sweetness of conceit,  
That we may wish that it may ever grow,  
Amid delights where we desire to wait,  
Upon the flower that pleaseth every eye,  
And glads each heart; God let it never die.   

Wherewith me thought aloud I cried, Amen:  
And therewithal I started out of sleep:  
Now what became of these fair Ladies then,  
I cannot tell, in mind I only keep  
These riddling toys which here I do recite:  
I'll tell ye more perhaps another night.    

The Chess Play.  
Very aptly devised by N. B. Gent.  
A Secret many years unseen,  
In play at Chess, who knows the game,  
First of the King, and then the Queen,  
Knight, Bishop, Rook, and so by name,  
Of every Pawn I will descry,  
The nature with the quality.  

The King.  
The King himself is haughty Care,  
Which overlooketh all his men,  
And when he seethe how they far,  
He steps among them now and then,  
Whom, when his foe presumes to check,  
His servants stand, to give the neck.   

The Queen.  
The Queen is quaint, and quick Conceit,  
Which makes her walk which way she list,  
And roots them up, that lie in wait  
To work her treason, ere she witted:  
Her force is such against her foes,  
That whom she meets, she overthrows.   

The Knight.  
The Knight is knowledge how to fight  
Against his Prince's enemies,  
He never makes his walk outright,  
But leaps and skips, in wily wise,  
To take by sleight a traitorous foe,  
Might slily seek their overthrow.   

The Bishop.  
The Bishop he is witty brain,  
That chooseth Crossest paths to pace,  
And evermore he pries with pain,  
To see who seeks him most disgrace:  
Such stragglers when he finds astray,  
He takes them up, and throws away.   

The Rookes.  
The Rooks are reason on both sides,  
Which keep the corner houses still,  
And warily stand to watch their tides,  
By secret art to work their will,  
To take sometime a thief unseen,  
Might mischief mean to King or Queen.   

The Pawns.  

The Pawn before the king, is peace,  
Which he desires to keep at home,  
Practice, the Queens, which doth not cease  
Amid the world abroad to roam,  
To find, and fall upon each foe,  
Whereas his mistress means to go.   

Before the knight, is peril placed,  
Which he, by skipping overgoes,  
And yet that Pawn can work a cast,  
To overthrow his greatest foes;  
The Bishops, prudence, prying still,  
Which way to work his masters will.  
The Rooks poor Pawns, are silly swains,  
Which seldom serve, except by hap,   

And yet those Pawns, can lay their trains,  
To catch a great man, in a trap:  
So that I see, sometime a groom  
May not be spared from his room.    

The nature of the Chess men.  
The King is stately, looking high;  
The Queen, doth bear like majesty:  
The Knight, is hardy, valiant, wise:  
The Bishop, prudent, and precise:  
The Rooks, no raungers out of ray,  
The Pawns, the pages in the play.   

LENVOY.  

Then rule with care, and quick conceit,  
And fight with knowledge, as with force;  
So bear a brain, to dash deceit,  
And work with reason and remorse:  
Forgive a fault, when young men play,  
So give a mate, and go your way.   

And when you play beware of Check,  
Know how to save and give a neck:  
And with a Check, beware of Mate;  
But chief, ware had I witted too late:  
Lose not the Queen, for ten to one,  
If she be lost, the game is gone.     

A most rare, and excellent Dream, learnedly set down by a worthy Gentleman, a brave Scholar, and M. of Arts in both Universities.  

THe while we sleep, whereof may it proceed,  
Our mind is led with dreams of divers sorts,  
Some fearful things, and discontentment breed,  
Some merriment, and pretty idle sports,  
And some of future things presage imports;  
Some wounds the conscience with the former gilt,  
Of outrage, wrongs, and blood unjustly spilled.   

Some strange effects if not impossible,  
As to be carried in the empty air,  
Of transformations some incredible,  
From form to form, and of their back repair,  
Some pleasant shows presents, and some despair:  
Some graver things a sleeping can discuss:  
And other, matters mere ridiculous.   

Men diversly do argue of the cause  
Of dreams: Some their occasion thus recites,  
The while the body takes his needful pause,  
In sleep to fresh and to restore the spirits,  
Decayed by labour, or the days delights,  
The mind, the cogitations of the day do keep,  
And run them over when we are asleep.   

Others our meats do charge with those effects  
That indigested in the stomach lies:  
Other celestial influence respects,  
And fetch from them our sleeping fantasies;  
The which they recommend as Prophecies:  
For when our spirits are stirred with those charms,  
We are foretold of good or future harms.   

But this conjecture chiefly I embrace,  
Even as the sea enraged with the wind,  
After the storm alaid will move a space,  
The self same reason may be well assigned,  
Unto the nightly labours of the mind:  
Who works in sleep, our actions at a stay,  
Upon th'occasions of the passed day.   

Upon a dream I had, I this prefer,  
The which the sequel shall deliver strait:  
That Love that first did make my reason err,  
straightly one day commanded me to wait,  
On pain to pine, and perish in conceit;  
Upon my sovereign, unto whom I went,  
As duty wild, and loves commandment.   

Mine eyes, the first entreating messengers,  
By signs of sorrow openly did speak,  
After my tongue the humble suit prefers  
Of my poor heart, with torments like to break:  
But little of my sufferings doth she reak:  
Sooner the rocks their hardness will forego,  
Than she acknowledge that which she doth know.   

In fine, unto my chamber I retire,  
A thousand fancies hamring on my wits,  
Despair, grief, anguish, fury, and desire,  
Do exercise in turn their Bedlam fits,  
Whereof to speak, or hear, best them befits,  
That now enjoying, heretofore have tried,  
The hell, and bitterness of Love denied.   

By this the night doth through the sky display  
Her sable rob, spangled with golden stars,  
And voicelesse silence 'gan to chase away  
Noises and sounds, with their molesting jars:  
And so the place to needful sleep prepars;  
Who Motherlike, most tenderly assuages,  
The days aggreevances and damages.   

Encumbered thus, I went unto my bed,  
Love knows, with little hope of taking rest,  
Fancy and frenzy worketh on my head,  
One while the one, than th'other gets the best:  
Now either's faction eager addressed;  
To hostile conflict furiously descend,  
Of purpose straight to make a final end.   

Extremity proceeding on so far,  
When either's forces equally were spent,  
They stinted of themselves this raging war,  
And left with victory indifferent:  
Slumber that found the time convenient,  
Seeing the slackness of their wearied train,  
Upon th'advantage seized on my brain.   

Who holding me under his shady wings,  
To mitigate the anguish of my thought,  
Presented me with divers pleasant things,  
Amongst the rest, a Lady fair he brought,  
From heaven no doubt those features there are wrought,  
Whose rays of beauty admirable bright,  
Filled my chamber with a Sunshine light.   

Her Amber tresses on her shoulders lies,  
The which as she doth move, divided run,  
About her body just in circle wise,  
Like to the curious web Arachne spun;  
Or else to make a fit comparison,  
Like slender twist turned to shining fire,  
Or flames by wonder wrought into a wire.   

The forehead that confines these burnished hairs,  
For whiteness striveth with untouched snow;  
For smoothness with the ivory compares;  
And doth the Alablasters glistering show,  
Under this firmament you are to know,  
Two powerful stars which at their pleasure move,  
The variable effects that follows love.   

Her cheeks resembleth right a garden plot,  
Of divers sorts of rare Carnation flowers,  
The which the scorcthing Sun offendeth not,  
Nor boisterous winter with his rotting showers;  
Uncertain I●no thereon never lowers:  
here Venus with her little loves reposes,  
Amongst the lilies and the damask roses.   

Her lips compares with the Vermilion morn,  
Her equal teeth in semicircle wise,  
For orientnes selected pearl may scorn,  
What may I of her issuing breath devise,  
That from this pearl and Synaber doth rise:  
The francumsence and myrr, that Ind presents,  
Within this air lose their extolled scents.   

The nose, the chin, the strait erected neck,  
Supporter to the head: next shoulders stands,  
The which descends into the arm direct,  
And terminates their length upon the hands:  
At each of these my wits amazed stands:  
For when I would their merits utter forth,  
I find all words inferior to their worth.   

The garments wherewithal she was attired,  
But slender in account, and yet were more  
Than her perfections needfully requyrde,  
Whose every part hath of contentment store:  
But as it was, thanks to my dream therefore,  
Who caused the apparition to be wrought,  
As all lay open to mine eyes or thought.   

There was, as I observed next to her skin,  
A snow white lawn, transparent as the air,  
And over this a garment wondrous thin,  
Of network, wrought in black, exceeding fair;  
Whose masks were small, and thread as fine as hair,  
Girt with a tawny Cyprous were her clothes,  
And thus attired, this Angel woman goes.   

Her moving breasts as equal Promontories,  
Divided by an Indraft from the main,  
Do imitate the gently moved Seas,  
That rising fall, and falling rise again:  
As they, so did my life in every vain:  
My spirit issued as they waxed hire,  
And as they settled, back again retire.   

Next neighbour hereunto in due descent,  
Her belly plain, the bed of nameless bliss,  
Wherein all things appear above content,  
And paradise is nothing more than this:  
In which Desire was moved to do amiss;  
For when his eyes upon this tree was cast,  
O blame him not, if he required to taste.   

What followed this, I cannot well report:  
The tawny Cyprous that forehanging fell,  
Restrained mine eyes in most malicious sort,  
Which of themselves were else affected well,  
Although as witness nought thereof I tell:  
I doubt not those that fine conceited be,  
Sees somewhat further, than mine eyes might see.   

But of her praises thus in general,  
Desired perfection showed in every part,  
Yet all appeerd in each one several,  
Unto the wonder of the eye and heart,  
Of every private part to write apart.  
Were work and argument for him that uses,  
The daily conversation of the Muses.   

Who this should be, if any long to hear,  
I say it is the portrait of the Saint,  
Which deep engraved in my heart I bear,  
The Mistress of my hope, my fear, and plaint,  
And thou that with her praises I acquaint,  
If thou canst nothing else, yet wish thou me,  
Delivered of that beauty's cruelty.   

With unperceived motion drawing nigh,  
Unto the bed of my distress and fear,  
She with her hand doth put the curtain by,  
And sits her down upon the one side there:  
My wasted spirits quite amazed were,  
To see the sudden morning of those eyes,  
Within the dark thus inexpected rise.   

Being abroad (quoth she) I lately hard,  
That you were fallen into a sudden fever,  
And solitary in your chamber bard,  
From company you did yourself dissever,  
To charity it appertaineth ever,  
In duties to our neighbours for to stick,  
And visit the afflicted and the sick.   

Which Christian office hither hath me led,  
Wishing I could recovery to you bring,  
Lady (quoth I) as easily done as sed,  
For you that have my life in managing,  
What need you wish, when you may do the thing:  
For if you be disposed to charity,  
Bestow on me this wished recovery.   

Is't in my garden that may do thee good?  
(Quoth she) or in my closet of conserves,  
Or may my kitchen any kind of food  
Devise, that to thy taste and fancy serves,  
Lady (said I) no coolice, no conserves,  
No herb, no potion cometh nigh that part,  
That suffereth this anguish and this smart.   

When further I would feign have spoken on,  
With fearfulness I felt my tongue restrained,  
And shamefastness with red Vermilion,  
My shallow cheeks and countenance distained:  
Now by this means my heart more deeply pained,  
Sent out a flood of weeping to betoken,  
The rest of that my tongue had left unspoken.   

As soon as sighs had overblown my tears,  
And tears allayed my sigh vehemence,  
Audacity expulser of those fears,  
Gave to desire at last pre-eminence,  
Who saw it now to be of consequence;  
Sauced his tale with duty and respect,  
And thus began, or to the like effect.   

It is no fever (Lady) in the veins,  
Nor in the blood, of humours the excess,  
Nor stomachs vapour, that annoys the brains,  
Nor ill contagion in the Arteries,  
Nor any grief that Physic remedies:  
It is, etc. and here my lips refused to move,  
Stopping the sentence ere I came to love.   

Haply (said she) as I do judge thereon,  
It is some toy or fancy in your head,  
Some sickness grounded on opinion,  
Or else some error your conceit hath bred:  
Then as suppose you to this anguish led,  
By mine advice, if you list ruled be,  
For health sake do suppose the contrary.   

Were it within the compass of my wits,  
(Leader of my desires) thus I replied,  
To remedy the outrage of those fits,  
That from this body would my life divide,  
The rather should these cordials be applied,  
That I might keep my life in health, to do,  
The services that love commands me to.   

But out alas, that weighed down with pain,  
With hands erected up, that I should cry,  
As doth the sailors blown into the main,  
After the ship that fore the wind doth fly,  
And yet in sight of help, must helpless die:  
So I, near her that can my woes appease,  
Do perish like the outcast in the Seas.   

Are you the worser that I am so near,  
The Lady said, and I not thereof aware?  
Nay happy then (quoth I) that you are here,  
And hapless too, because you are so far:  
She answered hereunto, these riddles are:  
Can near be far, can happy hapless be?  
As well (quoth I) as see, and not to see.   

What is he (Madame) that doth bait his eyes,  
Be he of mortal or immortal kind,  
Upon the beauties which your visage dies,  
And draws not present death into his mind,  
Unless your gracious looks do prove so kind,  
As with a yielding favour to prevent,  
The dangers thereunto are incident.   

Can it be possible you should not know  
The power and virtue of sweet beauty's gift?  
Can heaven and nature measureles bestow  
The things that you to Angels calling lift?  
And you not understand their purposed drift?  
Might they advance ye to a Goddess seat,  
And you be ignorant why they make ye great?   

If this were true, which you of me suppose,  
The praise of beauty, and commended parts,  
I see no reason to esteem of those,  
That do complain them of such petty smarts,  
Not incident to men of valiant hearts:  
The argument is dull, and nothing quick,  
Because that I am fair, you should be sick.   

Suppose I have those graces and those flowers,  
And all the virtues that you can recite,  
You look, you like, and you must have them yours;  
Forsooth, because they move your appetite:  
I see no reason to impart my right,  
Before that God and men agreed be,  
To let all things run in community.   

An easy thing for you to overcome,  
(Fair Lady) him, that is so deep your thrall:  
For every syllable from your lips that come,  
bears wit, and weight, and vehemence withal:  
Under the which, my subject spirits fall:  
If you do speak, or if you nought express,  
Your beauty of itself is Conqueress.   

With favour (Lady) give me leave to speak,  
(If you will listen a condemned's tale)  
No petty wound can make my heart strings break:  
Nor might a trifle work this deadly bale:  
Your sovereign beauty doth me hither hale:  
The stronger doth (even by a common course)  
Over the weaker exercise his force.   

Lady, in condescending unto Love,  
You do not share nor yet your right forego,  
In that you shall your servants suit approve,  
And bless him with those favours you can show,  
To higher place of dignity you grow:  
The Sun were not in my opinion bright,  
If there were not eye witness of his light.   

No abject commons of those things he seeks,  
Nor any way doth labour to induce  
That lives to serve and honour her he leeks,  
In hope at last to make an happy truce,  
And for this cause all other he refuse:  
To exercise those parts with serious care,  
Which to his Mistress fancy pleasing are.   

But sir (quoth she) how can ye answer this?  
You men complain, loves torments to be great;  
Saying that he a mighty Tyrant is;  
Such one as putteth reason from her seat;  
Why wish ye to ensnare me in this net?  
Better it is you suffer that you do,  
Then such extremes should happen upon two.   

When Love (sweet Lady) thoroughly accords,  
The Lovers and beloveds hearts in one,  
This amity a perfect heaven affords,  
Upon the instant of this union:  
Banished is thence all sorrow, care, and moan,  
For they which in conspiring Love abide,  
Live with continual joys, unsatisfide.   

This is believed and known by common brute,  
When of us Dames ye hap to get a grant,  
You give it to the cunning of your suit,  
Using with your companions thus to vaunt:  
These pretty fools, 'tis nothing to enchant:  
As fishers use for fish, with fish to bait,  
These fair ones, so, fair speeches catches straight.   

Let not (sweet Love) the fault of one or few,  
Or sinister report of truthelesse fame,  
Endamage the desert of him can show  
Many effects repugnant to the same,  
Unworthy he of life, or lovers name,  
Shall dare unto her honour, wrong, or scathe,  
Of whom both life, and happiness he hath.   

It is a proof (said she) of foolishness,  
To set that upon chance which may be sure,  
Exempt from Love, I live in happiness,  
In which condition I will yet endure:  
Griefs come apace, we need not them procure:  
In the estate I live, I am content,  
And mind not Love, in dread of discontent.   

I know (quoth I) you can from Love refrain,  
Because he holds his state within your eyes:  
But I, the vassal of his hard disdain,  
Am so dejected, as I cannot rise;  
Albeit my suit and service you despise,  
Yet give me leave to honour and admire,  
Your beauty which afflicteth my desire.   

there's little reason (said she then) to like  
The thing which you affirm to vex ye so,  
If your desire such discontentment strike,  
Such war, such anguish, agonies, and woe,  
Let that fantastic I advise ye go:  
The man is much desirous of unrest,  
That home entreats a known disquiet guest.   

Excepting Love, demand you at my hand,  
What ever is in my ability:  
And may with virtue, and mine honour stand,  
Lady (said I) Love is the Malady,  
And unto Love, love's th'only remedy:  
But sith you do herein my suit detest,  
Then grant me this, the last I shall request.   

When hapless Love hath brought me to the grave,  
If so at any time you pass that way,  
Where my consuming bones their burial have,  
Vouchsafe ye then for pities sake to say,  
As I remember, here my servant lay,  
Long time a Lover in affection true,  
Whom my disdain and rigour overthrew.   

Although ye die (quoth she) I will not love,  
And for you will not love (said I) I die:  
Then presently my spirits failed to move,  
Retiring back themselves successively:  
But when she did the sign of death espy,  
She pulled, she hauled, servant (said she) abide,  
Let not thy mistress be thy homicide.   

If thy affections do from Love proceed,  
How canst thou die, and I thy lives life near?  
If thou dost love, and honour me indeed,  
Why with this act dost thou defame me here?  
If thou esteemst my Love and honour dear,  
O live, and see my rigour overthrown,  
And come and take possession of thine own.   

And then unable weeping to withhold,  
She sundry means assays to make me live,  
My breasts she strikes, she rubs my temples cold,  
And with such vehemence of labours strive,  
As life unto a Marble stone might give:  
My hand at last, she amorously doth strain,  
And with a kiss drew up my life again.   

This new sprung joy conceived in my heart,  
Of loves assurance under hand and seal,  
Dilated thence abroad to every part,  
Telling how graciously my love did deal,  
My soul and spirit swelling with this zeal,  
So roused sleep, that he his hold forsook,  
And I through surfeit of the joy awoke.   

Awaked thus, I presently perceived,  
The vanity and falsehood of these joys;  
Finding that fond illusions had deceived  
My overwatched brain with idle toys;  
Then I that freshly felt my first annoys,  
Their wonted rage within my thoughts to keep,  
'Gan thus expostulate the cause with sleep.   

Thou ease of hearts, with burth'nous woes oppressed,  
Thou pitier of the cares of busy day,  
Thou friend to lovers in their deep unrest,  
Turning their anguishes another way,  
Why may not I continue with thee aye,  
Sith that my destiny is so extreme,  
As not to have my good, but in a dream.   

Why art thou not (O dream) the same you seem?  
Seeing thy visions our contentment brings;  
Or do we of their worthiness misdeem?  
To call them shadows that are real things?  
And falsely attribute their due to wake?  
O do but then perpetuate thy sleight,  
And I will swear, thou workest not by deceit.   

And now the Morning entering at the glass,  
Made of these thoughts some intermission:  
Thus have I told what things in dream did pass,  
Upon the former days occasion;  
And whence they come in mine opinion;  
But whether they tell truth, or nothing less,  
I shall resolve, upon my dreams success.    

Excellent Ditties of divers kinds, and rare invention: written by sundry Gentlemen.  


Weep you my lines for sorrow whilst I writ  
For you alone may manifest my grief,  
Your numbers must my endless woes recite,  
Such woes as wound my soul without relief,  
Such bitter woes, as who so would disclose them,  
Must cease to talk, for heart can scarce suppose them.   

My restless brains devoured by many thoughts,  
Disclaiming joys doth make a heaven of hell,  
An Idol of mislikes, a God of noughts,  
Contrarious passions on my brain doth dwell,  
They would have ease, yet seek for ceaseless strife,  
And make their cause of death, their means of life.   

Mine eyes are dimmed by two divine delights,  
And through their sight, my heart hath caught a wound:  
Their lids were shut amids the lingering nights:  
Their yielding fountains watering of the ground,  
Do ceaseless run, and shroud their shining joy,  
And drown Content in rivers of annoy.   

I feign to smile, when as I faint for fear:  
I dream on joy, when as I doubt of woe:  
I burn in fire, yet still approach it near:  
I like of mirth, yet will no solace know:  
I see content, yet never cease to sigh:  
I live secure, yet danger passeth nigh.   

I catch at hope, yet overtake it never:  
I feed on thought, yet thought doth force my end:  
I crave repose, yet find disquiet ever:  
I scorn advice, yet counsel is my friend:  
I will be free, yet feed on thraldom still:  
I honour wit, yet feed on foolish will.   

Mine eyes complain the follies of my heart:  
My heart laments the errors of mine eye:  
My thoughts would bury endless things in art:  
Mine eye, my heart, my thoughts, wend all awry:  
Yet of my harms (ye heavens) the worst is this;  
I cannot censure what my sorrow is.   

My life is death, for no delights are in it:  
My music moan, and yet I never leave it:  
My succour hope, yet can I never win it:  
My gains report, yet will I not perceive it:  
My food suspect, and yet I cannot sly it:  
My foe neglect, and yet I mean to try it.   

By day I frieze, I fry, I wish, I wait:  
By night I loathe my rest, and wish for day:  
Both day and night, my heart with doubts I bait:  
Weighing delight from cause of my decay:  
The Vultures that consume my tender breast,  
Is sweet desire, the cause of my unrest.   

Now what I am, my sorry cheeks disclose:  
Once what I was, my smiling eyes bewrayed:  
Now what I want, conjecture by my woes:  
Once what I scorned, hath now my heart betrayed:  
woe' me, my want of help doth well approve,  
The pains I feel, is even the pangs of love.   

Well, be it pain, loves torments let it be:  
Let endless thoughts consume my restless brains:  
Let tears so choke mine eyes, I may not see:  
Let tongue be mute, for to disclose my pains:  
Let joys, let hope, let all contents surcease,  
These bitter plagues, my fancies shall increase.   

No pain, no fortune shall my Love confound:  
My spotless faith, my simple truth shall prove,  
That I my liking on no errors ground:  
Thus will I live, thus will I pass my Love:  
Repulse, contempt, can never alter kind;  
loves triumph doth consist in constant mind.   

With constant mind the poor remainder gift,  
That Love amongst his many spoils hath left me,  
Is that which to the heavens my face shall lift,  
Though other hope by fortune be bereft me;  
And if I die, this praise shall me await,  
My Love was endless, void of all deceit.   
FINIS.   


Muses help me, sorrow swarmeth,  
Eyes are fraught with seas of languish,  
Hapless hope my solace harmeth:  
Minds repast is bitter anguish.   

Eye of day regarded never,  
Certain trust in world untrusty,  
Flattering hope beguileth ever:  
Weary old, and wanton lusty.   

dawn of day, beholds enthroned,  
Fortune's darling proud and dreadless:  
Darksome night doth hear him moaned,  
Who before was rich and needles.   

Rob the sphere of lines united;  
Make a sudden void in nature:  
Force the day to be benighted;  
Reave the cause of time, and creature.   

Ere the world will cease to vary:  
This I weep for, this I sorrow:  
Muses if you please to tarry,  
Further help I mean to borrow.   

Courted once by fortune's favour,  
Compassed now with envies curses:  
All my thoughts of sorrows savour,  
Hopes run fleeting like the Sources.   

Ay me wanton scorn hath maimed  
All the joys my heart enjoyed:  
Thoughts their thinking have disclaimed,  
Hate my hopes have quite annoyed.   

Scant regard my weal hath scanted:  
Looking coy hath forced my lowering:  
Nothing liked, where nothing wanted,  
Weds mine eyes to ceaseless showering.   

Former Love was once admired,  
Present favour is estranged:  
Loathed the pleasure long desired;  
Thus both men and thoughts are changed.   

Lovely Swain with lucky speeding,  
Once (but now no more) so friended:  
Thou my flocks hast had in feeding,  
From the morn, till day was ended.   

Drink and fodder, food and folding,  
Had my lambs and ewes together:  
I with them was still beholding,  
Both in warmth, and winter weather.   

Now they languish since refused,  
Ewes and lambs are pain with pining:  
I with ewes and lambs confused,  
All unto our deaths declining.   

Silence leave thy cave obscured,  
Deign a doleful Swain to tender,  
Though disdains I have endured,  
Yet I am no deep offender.   

Philip's son can with his finger,  
Hide his scar, it is so little:  
Little sin a day to linger,  
Wise men wander in a tittle.   

Trifles yet my Swain have turned,  
though my son he never showeth:  
though I weep, I am not mourned,  
though I want, no pity groweth.   

Yet for pity love my muses,  
Gentle silence be their cover,  
They must leave their wont uses,  
Since I leave to be a Lover.   

They shall live with thee enclosed,  
I will loathe my pen and paper:  
Art shall never be supposed,  
Sloth shall quench the watching taper.   

Kiss them silence, kiss them kindly,  
though I leave them, yet I love them:  
though my wit have led them blindly,  
Yet my Swain did once approve them.   

I will travel soils removed,  
Night and morning never merry,  
Thou shalt harbour that I loved,  
I will love that makes me weary.   

If perchance the Shepherd strayeth,  
In thy walks and shades unhaunted,  
Tell the Teen my heart betrayeth,  
How neglect my joys have daunted.   
T. L. Gent.   


Strive no more,  
Forspoken joys to spring:  
Since care hath clipped thy wing:  
But stoop those lamps before:  
That nursed thee up at first, with friendly smiles,  
And now through scorns thy trust beguiles.   

Pine away,  
That pining you may please;  
For death betides you ease:  
Oh sweet and kind decay;  
To pine and die, whilst Love gives looking on,  
And pines to see your pining moan.   

Dying joys,  
Your shrine is constant heart,  
That glories in his smart:  
Your Trophies are annoys,  
And on your tomb, by Love these lines are placed,  
Lo here they lie, whom scorn defaced.   
T. L. Gent.   


OF ceaseless thoughts my mind hath framed his wings,  
Wherewith he soars and climes above conceit,  
And midst his flight for endless joy he sings,  
To spy those double lamps, whose sweet receipt  
Must be the heaven where as my soul shall rest,  
Though by their shine my body be depressed.   

Her eyes shroud pity, piety, and pure,  
Her face shields Roses, Lilies, and delight,  
Her hand hath power, to conquer and allure,  
Her heart, holds honour, love, remorse, and right,  
Her mind is fraught, with wisdom, faith, and love,  
All what is hers, is borrowed from above.   

Then mount my mind, and fear no future fall,  
Exceed conceit, for she exceeds conceit!  
Burn lovely lamps, to whom my looks are thrall,  
My soul shall glory in so sweet receipt,  
though in your flames my corpse to cinders wend,  
Yet am I proud to gain a Phoenix end.   
T. L. Gent.   


WHen Pirrha made her miracle of stones,  
The base sort of flinty mould she framed,  
Whose course compact concealed all at once,  
All what in nature could imperfect be,  
So but imperfect perfect, was the shape,  
And mind even with the metal did agree.   

The finer forms of Diamonds she made,  
A peerless substance matchless for the mould,  
Whence grew such shapes that heaven his pure forsook,  
To frame a mind agreeing to the form.   

This by my proof, I find for certain true,  
For why my mistress matchless in her shape,  
For body far exceeds my base report,  
For mind, no mind can crave more rare supplies,  
And last I spy the sapphires in her eyes,   
T. L. Gent.   


ALl day I weep my weary woes,  
Then when that night approacheth near,  
And every one his eyes doth close,  
And passed pains no more appear,  
I change my cheer,   

And in the weep of mine eye,  
Love baths his wings, and from my heart  
Draws fire his fury to supply,  
And on my bones doth whet his dart:  
Oh bitter smart.   

My sighs within their clouds obscure,  
Would blind mine eyes, they might not see,  
Those cruel pleasant lamps that lure:  
My reason feign would set me free,  
Which may not be.   

The dried straw will take the fire;  
The trained brach will follow game:  
The idle thought doth still desire:  
Fond will is hardly brought in frame:  
The more my blame.   

Thus see I how the storms do grow,  
And yet the pain I still approve:  
I leave my weal, I follow woe,  
I see the rock, yet nill remove:  
Oh fly me Love:   

Then midst the storms I shall prevent,  
And by foresight my troubles cease:  
And by my reason shun repent;  
Thus shall I joy, if Love decrease:  
And live in peace.   
T. L. Gent.   


MY frail and earthly bark by reasons guide,  
(Which holds the helm, whilst will doth yield the sail)  
By my desires the winds of bad betide,  
Hath sailed these worldly seas with small avail,  
Vain objects serve for dreadful rocks to quail,  
My brittle boat, from haven of life that flies,  
To haunt the Sea of Mundane miseries.   

My soul that draws impressions from above,  
And views my course, and sees the winds aspire,  
Bids reason watch to scape the shoals of Love,  
But lawless will inflame with endless ire,  
Doth steer in poop whilst reason doth retire:  
The storms increase, my bark loves billows fill;  
Thus are they wracked, that guide their course by will.   
T. L. Gent.   


MIdst lasting griefs, to have but short repose,  
In little ease, to feed on loathed suspect,  
Through deep despite, assured love to lose,  
In show to like, in substance to neglect:   

To laugh an hour, to weep an age of woe,  
From true mishap to gather false delight,  
To freeze in fear, in inward heart to glow:  
To read my loss within a ruthless sight:   

To seek my weal, and wots not where it lies,  
In hidden fraud, an open wrong to find,  
Of ancient thoughts, new fables to devise,  
Delightful smiles, but yet a scornful mind▪   

These are the means that murder my relief,  
And end my doubtful hope with certain grief.   
T. L. Gent.   


OH woods unto your walks my body hies,  
To lose the traitorous bonds of 'ticing Love,  
Where trees, where herbs, where flowers,  
Their native moisture powers,  
From forth their tender stalks to help mine eyes,  
Yet their united tears may nothing move.   

When I beheld the fair adorned tree,  
Which lightnings force and winter's frosts resists,  
Than Daphne's ill betide,  
And Phoebus' lawless pride,  
Enforce me say even such my sorrows be,  
For self disdain in Phebe's heart consists.   

If I behold the flowers by morning tears,  
Look lovely sweet, ah then forlorn I cry:  
Sweet showers for Memnon shed,  
All flowers by you are fed:  
Whereas my piteous plaint that still appears,  
Yields vigour to her scorns and makes me die.   

When I regard the pretty greeffull bird,  
With tearful (yet delightful) notes complain,  
I yield a tenor with my tears,  
And whilst her music wounds mine ears,  
Alas say I, why nill my notes afford  
Such like remorse, who still beweep my pain.   

When I behold upon the leafless bow,  
The hapless bird lament her loves depart,  
I draw her biding nigh,  
And sitting down I sigh,  
And sighing say alas, that birds avow  
A settled faith, where Phebe scorns my smart.   

Thus weary in my walks, and woeful too,  
I spend the day forespent with daily grief:  
Each object of distress,  
My sorrow doth express:  
I dote on that which doth my heart undo,  
And honour her that scorns to yield relief.   
T. L. Gent.   


Accursed be love and they that trust his trains;  
He tastes the fruit, whilst others toil:  
He brings the lamp, we lend the oil:  
He sows distress, we yield him soil:  
He wageth war, we bide the foil:   

Accursed be Love, and those that trust his trains:  
He lays the trap, we seek the snare:  
He threateneth death, we speak him fair:  
He coins deceits, we foster care:  
He favoureth pride, we count it rare.   

Accursed be Love, and those that trust his trains,  
He seemeth blind, yet wounds with Art:  
He vows content, he pays with smart:  
He swears relief, yet kills the heart:  
He calls for truth, yet scorns desert.  
Accursed be love, and those that trust his trains,  
Whose heaven, is hell; whose perfect joys, are pains.   
T. L. Gent.   


NOw I find, thy looks were feigned,  
Quickly lost, and quickly gained:  
Soft thy skin, like wool of Wethers,  
heart unstable, light as feathers:  
Tongue untrusty, subtle sighted:  
Wanton will with change delighted,  
Siren pleasant, foe to reason:  
Cupid plague thee, for this treason.   

Of thine eyes I made my mirror;  
From thy beauty came mine error:  
All thy words I counted witty:  
All thy smiles I deemed pity:  
Thy false tears that me aggrieved,  
First of all my trust deceived.  
Siren pleasant, etc.   

Feigned acceptance when I asked,  
Lovely words with cunning masked;  
Holy vows, but heart unholy:  
Wretched man my trust was folly:  
Lily white, and pretty winking,  
Solemn vows, but sorry thinking.  
Siren pleasant, etc.   

Now I see, O seemly cruel,  
Others warm them at my fuel:  
Wit shall guide me in this durance,  
Since in Love is no assurance:  
Change thy pasture, take thy pleasure,  
Beauty is a fading treasure,  
Siren pleasant, etc.   

Prime youth lasts not, age will follow,  
And make white these tresses yellow:  
Wrinkled face, for looks delightful,  
Shall acquaint the dame despiteful:  
And when time shall date thy glory,  
Then too late thou wilt be sorry.  
Siren pleasant, etc.   
T. L. Gent.   


THe fatal star that at my birthday shined,  
Were it of jove, or Venus in her brightness,  
All sad effects, sour fruits of love divined,  
In my loves lightness,   

Light was my Love, that all too light believed:  
heavens ruth to dwell in fair alluring faces,  
That love, that hope, that damned, and repreeved,  
To all disgraces.   

Love that misled, hope that deceived my seeing:  
Love hope no more, mocked with deluding object:  
Sight full of sorrow, that denies the being,  
Unto the subject.   

Soul leave the seat, where thoughts with endless swelling,  
Change into tears and words of no persuasion:  
Tears turn to tongues, and spend your tunes in telling,  
Sorrows invasion.   

Wonder vain world at beauties proud refusal:  
Wonder in vain at loves unkind denial,  
Why Love thus lofty is, that doth abuse all:  
And makes no trial.   

Tears, words, and tunes, all signify my sadness:  
My speechless grief, look pale without dissembling:  
Sorrow sit mute, and tell thy torments madness,  
With true hearts trembling.   

And if pure vows, or hands heaved up to heaven,  
May move the Gods to rue my wretched blindness,  
My plaints shall make my joys in measure even,  
With her unkindness.   

That she whom my true heart hath found so cruel,  
Mourning all mirthless may pursue the pleasure,  
That scorns her labours: poor in her joys jewel,  
And earthly treasure.   
T. L. Gent.   


Feign to content, I bend myself to write,  
But what to write, my mind can scarce conceive:  
Your radiant eyes crave objects of delight,  
My heart no glad impressions can receive:  
To write of grief, is but a tedious thing:  
And woeful men, of woe must needly sing.   

To write the truce, the wars, the strife, the peace,  
That Love once wrought in my distempered heart:  
Were but to cause my wonted woes increase,  
And yield new life to my concealed smart:  
Who tempts the ear with tedious lines of grief,  
That waits for joy, complains without relief.   

To write what pains supplanteth others joy,  
For-thy is folly in the greatest wit,  
Who feels, may best decipher the annoy,  
Who knows the grief, but he that tasteth it?  
Who writes of woe, must needs be woe begun,  
And writing feel, and feeling write of moan.   

To write the temper of my last desire,  
That likes me best, and appertains you most:  
You are the Pharos whereto now retire,  
My thoughts long wandering in a foreign coast,  
In you they live, to other joys they die,  
And living draw their food from your fair eye.   

Enforced by Love, and that effectual fire,  
That springs from you to quicken loyal hearts:  
I writ in part the prime of my desire,  
My faith, my fear, that springs from your deserts;  
My faith, whose firmness never shuneth trial,  
My fear, the dread and danger of denial.   

To write in brief, a legend in a line,  
My heart hath vowed to draw his life from yours;  
My looks have made a Sun of your sweet eine,  
My soul doth draw his essence from your powers:  
And what I am, in fortune or in love,  
All those have sworn, to serve for your behove.   

My senses suck their comforts from your sweet,  
My inward mind, your outward fair admires;  
My hope lies prostrate at your pity's feet,  
My heart, looks, soul, sense, mind, and hope desires;  
Belief, and favour, in your lovely sight,  
Else all will cease to live, and pen to write.   
T. L. Gent.   


Full fraught with unrecomptles sweet,  
Of your fair face that stole mine eye,  
No gladsome day my looks did greet,  
Wherein I wished not willingly;  
Mine eyes were shut I might not see,  
A Lady of less majesty.   

What most I like, I never mind,  
And so on you have fixed my thoughts,  
That others sights do make me blind,  
And what I see but you is noughts;  
By use and custom thus you see,  
Another nature lives in me.   

The more I look, the more I love,  
The more I think, the more I thrive,  
No object can my look remove,  
No thought can better thoughts revive,  
For what I see or think, I find,  
Exceedeth sight or thought of mind.   

Since than your looks, have stolen mine eyes,  
And eyes content to nourish love,   

And love doth make my thoughts arise,  
And thoughts are firm, and will not move,  
Vouchsafe to knit by power unknown,  
Our eyes, our loves, our thoughts in one.   
T. L. Gent.   


LIke desert woods, with darksome shades obscured,  
Where dreadful beasts, where hateful horror reigneth  
Such is my wounded heart whom sorrow paineth.   

The trees, are fatal shafts, to death enured,  
That cruel Love within my breast maintaineth,  
To whet my grief, when as my sorrow waineth.   

The ghastly beasts, my thoughts in cares assured,  
Which wage me war, whilst heart no succour gaineth,  
With false suspect, and fear that still remaineth.   

The horrors, burning sighs by cares procured,  
Which forth I send, whilst weeping eye complaineth,  
To cool the heat, the helpless heart containeth.   

But shafts, but cares, sighs, horrors unrecured,  
Were nought esteemed, if for these pains awarded,  
My faithful Love by you might be rewarded.   
T. L. Gent.   


FOr pity pretty eyes surcease,  
To give me war, and grant me peace,  
Triumphant eyes, why bear you Arms,  
Against a heart that thinks no harms.  
A heart already quite appalled,  
A heart that yields, and is enthralled,  
Kill Rebels proudly that resist,  
Not those that in true faith persist.  
And conquered serve your Deity,  
Will you alas command me die?  
Then die I yours, and death my cross,  
But unto you pertains the loss.   
T. L. Gent.   


MY bonny Lass thine eye,  
So sly,  
Hath made me sorrow so:  
Thy Crimson cheeks my dear,  
So clear,  
Have so much wrought my woe.   

Thy pleasing smiles and grace,  
Thy face,  
Have ravished so my sprights:  
That life is grown to nought,  
Through thought,  
Of Love which me affrights.   

For fancies flames of fire,  
Aspire,  
Unto such furious power:  
As but the tears I shed,  
Make dead,  
The brands would me devour.   

I should consume to nought,  
Through thought,  
Of thy fair shining eye:  
Thy cheeks, thy pleasing smiles,  
The wiles,  
That forced my heart to die.   

Thy grace, thy face, the part,  
Where art,  
Stands gazing still to see:  
The wondrous gifts and power,  
Each hour,  
That hath bewitched me.   
T. L. Gent.   


ALas my heart, mine eye hath wronged thee,  
Presumptuous eye, to gaze on Phillis face:  
Whose heavenly eye, no mortal man my see,  
But he must die, or purchase Phillis grace;  
Poor Coridon, the Nymph whose eye doth move thee,  
Doth love to draw, but is not drawn to love thee.   

Her beauty, Nature's pride, and Shepherd's praise,  
Her eye, the heavenly Planet of my life,  
Her matchless wit, and grace, her fame displays,  
As if that jove had made her for his wife;  
Only her eyes shoot fiery darts to kill,  
Yet is her heart, as cold as Caucase hill.   

My wings too weak, to fly against the Sun,  
Mine eyes unable to sustain her light,  
My heart doth yield, that I am quite undone,  
Thus hath fair Phillis slain me with her sight:  
My bud is blasted, withered is my leaf,  
And all my corn is rotten in the sheaf.   

Phillis, the golden fetter of my mind,  
My fancy's Idol, and my vital power;  
Goddess of Nymphs, and honour of thy kind,  
This Age's Phoenix, Beauty's bravest bower;  
Poor Coridon for love of thee must die,  
Thy Beauty's thrall, and conquest of thine eye.   

Leave Coridon, to plough the barren field,  
Thy buds of hope are blasted with disgrace;  
For Phillis looks, no hearty love do yield,  
Nor can she love, for all her lovely face,  
Die Coridon, the spoil of Phillis eye,  
She can not love, and therefore thou must die.   

WHat cunnnig can express  
The favour of her face,  
To whom in this distress,  
I do appeal for grace,  
A thousand Cupids fly,  
About her gentle eye.   

From whence each throws a dart,  
That kindleth soft sweet fire:  
Within my sighing heart,  
Possessed by desire:  
No sweeter life I try,  
Than in her love to die.   

The Lily in the field,  
That glories in his white:  
For pureness now must yield,  
And render up his right:  
Heaven pictur'de in her face,  
Doth promise joy and grace.   

Fair Cinthia's silver light,  
That beats on running streams;  
Compares not with her white,  
Whose hairs are all sunbeams;  
Her virtues so do shine,  
As day unto mine eine.   

With this there is a Red,  
Exceeds the Damask Rose;  
Which in her cheeks is spread;  
Whence every favour grows,  
In sky there is no star,  
That she surmounts not far.   

When Phoebus from the bed,  
Of Thetis doth arise,  
The morning blushing red,  
In fair carnation wise,  
He shows it in her face,  
As Queen of every grace.   

This pleasant Lily white,  
This taint of roseate red,  
This Cinthia's silver light,  
This sweet fair Dea spread,  
These sunbeams in mine eye,  
These beauties make me die.   
E. O.    

A most excellent passion set down by N. B. Gent.  

Come younglings come, that seem to make such moan,  
About a thing of nothing God he knows:  
With sighs and sobs, and many a grievous groan,  
And trickling tears, that secret sorrow shows,  
Leave, leave to feign, and here behold indeed,  
The only man, may make your hearts to bleed.   

Whose state to tell; no, never tongue can tell:  
Whose woes are such; oh no, there are none such:  
Whose hap so hard: nay rather half a hell:  
Whose grief so much: yea God he knows too much:  
Whose woeful state, and grievous hap (alas,)  
The world may see, is such as never was.   

Good nature weeps to see herself abused;  
Ill fortune shows her fury in her face:  
Poor reason pines to see herself refused:  
And duty dies, to see his sore disgrace.  
Hope hangs the head, to see despair so near;  
And what but death can end this heavy cheer?   

Oh cursed cares, that never can be known:  
Dole, worse than death, when never tongue can tell it:  
The hurt is hid, although the sorrow shown,  
Such is my pain, no pleasure can expel it.  
In sum I see, I am ordained I:  
To live in dole, and so in sorrow die.   

Behold each tear, no token of a toy:  
But torments such, as tear my heart asunder:  
Each sobbing sigh, a sign of such annoy,  
That how I live, believe me 'tis a wonder.  
Each groan, a gripe, that makes me gasp for breath:  
And every strain, a bitter pang of death.   

Lo thus I live, but looking still to die:  
And still I look, but still I see in vain:  
And still in vain, alas, I lie and cry:  
And still I cry, but have no ease of pain.  
So still in pain, I live, look, lie, and cry:  
When hope would help, or death would let me die.   

Sometime I sleep, a slumber, not a sleep:  
And then I dream (God knows) of no delight,  
But of such woes, as makes me lie and weep  
Until I wake, in such a piteous plight;  
As who beheld me sleeping or awaking,  
Would say my heart were in a heavy taking.   

Look as the dew doth lie upon the ground,  
So sits the sweat of sorrow on my face:  
Oh deadly dart, that struck so deep a wound,  
Oh hateful hap, to hit in such a place:  
The heart is hurt, and bleeds the body over:  
Yet cannot die, nor ever health recover.   

Then he or she, that hath a happy hand,  
To help a heart, that hath no hope to live:  
Come, come with speed, and do not staying stand:  
But if no one, can any comfort give,  
Run to the Church, and bid the Sexton toll  
A solemn knell, yet for a seely soul.   

Hark how it sounds, that sorrow lasteth long:  
Long, long: long long: long long, and longer yet:  
Oh cruel death: thou dost me double wrong,  
To let me lie so long in such a fit:  
Yet when I die, writ neighbours where I lie;  
Long was I dead, ere death would let me die.   

THese lines I send by waves of woe,  
And bale becomes my boat:  
Which sighs of sorrows still shall keep,  
On floods of fear afloat.   

My sighs shall serve me still for wind,  
My lading is my smart:  
And true report my pilot is,  
My haven is thy heart.   

My keel is framed of crabbed care,  
My ribs are all of ruth:  
My planks are nothing else but plants,  
With treenailes joined with truth.   

My main mast made of nought but moan,  
My tackling trickling tears:  
And Topyard like a troubled mind,  
A flag of folly bears.   

My Cable is a constant heart,  
My Anchor luckless Love:  
Which Reasons Capstones from the ground,  
Of grief can not remove.   

My Decks are all of deep disgrace,  
My Compass discontent;  
And peril is my Northern Pole,  
And death my Orient.   

My Sailors are my sorrowing thoughts,  
The Boateswane bitter sense:  
The Master, misery; his mate  
Is doleful diligence.   
Sir W. H.   


Feed still thyself, thou fondling with belief,  
Go hunt thy hope, that never took effect,  
Accuse the wrongs that oft hath wrought thy grief,  
And reckon sure where reason would suspect.   

Dwell in the dreams of wish and vain desire,  
Pursue the faith that flies and seeks to new,  
Run after hopes that mock thee with retire,  
And look for love where liking never grew.   

devise conceits to ease thy careful heart,  
Trust upon times and days of grace behind,  
Presume the rights of promise and desert,  
And measure love by thy believing mind.   

Force thy affects that spite doth daily chase,  
Wink at the wrongs with wilful oversight,  
See not the soil and stain of thy disgrace,  
Nor reck disdain, to dote on thy delight.   

And when thou seest the end of thy reward,  
And these effects ensue of thine assault,  
When rashness rues, that reason should regard,  
Yet still accuse thy fortune for the fault.  
And cry, O Love, O death, O vain desire,  
When thou complain'st the heat, & feeds the fire.   

MY first borne love unhappily conceived,  
Brought forth in pain, & christened with a curse  
Die in your Infancy, of life bereaved,  
By your cruel nurse.   

Restless desire, from my Love that proceeded,  
Leave to be, and seek your heaven by dying,  
Since you, O you? your own hope have exceeded,  
By too high flying.   

And you my words, my hearts faithful expounders,  
No more offer your jewel, unesteemed,  
Since those eyes my loves life and lives confounders,  
Your worth misdeemed.   

love leave to desire, words leave it to utter,  
Swell on my thoughts, till you break that contains you  
My complaints in those deaf ears no more mutter,  
That so disdains you.   

And you careless of me, that without feeling,  
With dry eyes, behold my Tragedy smiling,  
Deck your proud triumphs with your poor slaves yielding  
To his own spoiling.   

But if that wrong, or holy truth despised,  
To just revenge, the heavens ever moved,  
So let her love, and so be still denied,  
Who she so loved.   

THe brainsick race that wanton youth ensues,  
Without regard to grounded wisdoms lore,  
As often as I think thereon, renews  
The fresh remembrance of an ancient sore:  
Revoking to my pensive thoughts at last,  
The worlds of wickedness that I have passed.   

And though experience bids me bite on bit,  
And champ the bridle of a better smack,  
Yet costly is the price of after wit,  
Which brings so cold repentance at her back:  
And skill that's with so many losses bought,  
Men say is little better worth than nought.   

And yet this fruit I must confess doth grow  
Of folly's scourge: that though I now complain  
Of error past, yet henceforth I may know  
To shun the whip that threats the like again:  
For wise men though they smart a while, had liefer  
To learn experience at the last, than never.   

THose eyes which set my fancy on a fire,  
Those crisped hairs, which hold my heart in chains,  
Those dainty hands, which conquered my desire,  
That wit, which of my thoughts doth hold the reins.   

Those eyes for clearness do the stars surpas,  
Those hairs obscure the brightness of the Sun,  
Those hands more white, than ever ivory was,  
That wit even to the skies hath glory won.   

O eyes that pierce our hearts without remorse,  
O hairs of right that wears a royal crown,  
O hands that conquer more than Caesar's force,  
O wit that turns huge kingdoms upside down.   

Then Love be judge, what heart may thee withstand:  
Such eyes, such hair, such wit, and such a hand.   

Praised be Diana's fair and harmless light,  
Praised be the dews, wherewith she moists the ground;  
Praised be her beams, the glory of the night,  
Praised be her power, by which all powers abound.   

Praised be her Nymphs, with whom she decks the woods,  
Praised be her knights, in whom true honour lives,  
Praised be that force, by which she moves the floods,  
Let that Diana shine, which all these gives.   

In heaven Queen she is among the spheres,  
In ay she Mistress like makes all things pure,  
Eternity in her oft change she bears,  
She beauty is, by her the fair endure.   

Time wears her not, she doth his chariot guide,  
Mortality below her orb is placed,  
By her the virtue of the stars down slide,  
In her is virtues perfect image cast.   

A knowledge pure it is her worth to know,  
With Circe's let them dwell that think not so.   

LIke to a Hermit poor in place obscure,  
I mean to spend my days of endless doubt,  
To wail such woes as time cannot recure,  
Where none but Love shall ever find me out.   

My food shall be of care and sorrow made,  
My drink nought else but tears fallen from mine eyes,  
And for my light in such obscured shade,  
The flames shall serve, which from my heart arise.   

A gown of grey, my body shall attire,  
My staff of broken hope whereon I'll stay,  
Of late repentance linked with long desire,  
The couch is framed whereon my limbs I'll lay,   

And at my gate despair shall linger still,  
To let in death when Love and Fortune will.   

LIke truthless dreams, so are my joys expired,  
And past return, are all my dandled days:  
My love misled, and fancy quite retired,  
Of all which passed, the sorrow only stays.   

My lost delights, now clean from sight of land,  
Have left me all alone in unknown ways:  
My mind to woe, my life in fortune's hand,  
Of all which passed, the sorrow only stays.   

As in a country strange without companion,  
I only wail the wrong of death's delays,  
Whose sweet spring spent, whose summer well nigh done,  
Of all which passed, the sorrow only stays.   

Whom care forewarns, ere age and winter cold,  
To haste me hence, to find my fortune's fold.   

A Secret murder hath been done of late,  
Unkindness found, to be the bloody knife,  
And she that did the deed a dame of state,  
Fair, gracious, wise, as any beareth life.   

To quite herself, this answer did she make,  
Mistrust (quoth she) hath brought him to his end,  
Which makes the man so much himself mistake,  
To lay the guilt unto his guiltless friend.   

Lady not so, not feared I found my death,  
For no desert thus murdered is my mind,  
And yet before I yield my fainting breath,  
I quite the killer, though I blame the kind.   

You kill unkind, I die, and yet am true,  
For at your sight, my wound doth bleed anew.   

SOught by the world, and hath the world disdained,  
Is she, my heart, for whom thou dost endure,  
Unto whose grace, sith Kings have not obtained,  
Sweet is thy choice, though loss of life be sour:  
Yet to the man, whose youth such pains must prove,  
No better end, than that which comes by love.   

steer then thy course unto the port of death,  
Sith thy hard hap no better hap may find,  
Where when thou shalt unlade thy latest breath,  
Envy herself shall swim to save thy mind,  
Whose body sunk in search to gain that shore,  
Where many a Prince had perished before.   

And yet my heart it might have been foreseen,  
Sith skilful medicines mends each kind of grief,  
Then in my breast full safely hadst thou been,  
But thou my heart wouldst never me believe,  
Who told thee true, when first thou didst aspire,  
Death was the end of every such desire.   
Her face, Her tongue, Her wit, So fair, So sweet, So sharp, First bend, Then drew, Then hit, Mine eye, Mine ear, My heart. Mine eye, Mine ear, My heart, To like, To learn, To love, Her face, Her tongue, Her wit, Doth lead, doth teach, Doth move. Oh face, Oh tongue, Oh wit, With frowns, With check, With smart, Wrong not, Vex not, Wound not, Mine eye, Mine ear, My heart. Mine eye, Mine ear, My heart, To learn, To know, To fear, Her facc, Her tongue, Her wit, Doth lead, Doth teach, Doth swear.  

CAlling to mind mine eye long went about,  
T'entice my heart to seek to leave my breast,  
All in a rage I thought to pull it out,  
By whose device I lived in such unrest,  
What could it say to purchase so my grace?  
Forsooth that it had seen my Mistress face.   

Another time I likewise call to mind,  
My heart was he that all my woe had wrought,  
For he my breast the fort of Love resigned,  
When of such wars my fancy never thought,  
What could it say, when I would him have slain?  
But he was yours, and had foregone me clean.   

At length when I perceived both eye and heart,  
Excused themselves, as guiltless of mine ill,  
I found myself was cause of all my smart,  
And told myself, myself now slay I will:  
But when I found myself to you was true,  
I loved myself, because myself loved you.   

WHat else is hell, but loss of blissful heaven?  
What darkness else, but lack of lightsome day?  
What else is death, but things of life bereaven?  
What winter else, but pleasant springs decay?   

Unrest what else, but fancies hot desire,  
Fed with delay, and followed with despair?  
What else mishap, but longing to aspire,  
To strive against, earth, water, fire and air?   

Heaven were my state, and happy Sunshine day,  
And life most blessed, to joy one hours desire,  
Hap, bliss, and rest, and sweet spring-time of May,  
Were to behold my fair consuming fire.   

But lo, I feel, by absence from your sight,  
Mishap, unrest, death, winter, hell, dark night.   

WOuld I were changed into that golden shower,  
That so divinely streamed from the skies,  
To fall in drops upon the dainty floor,  
Where in her bed, she solitary lies,  
Then would I hope such showers as richly shine,  
Would pierce more deep than these waste tears of mine.   

Or would I were that plumed Swan, snow white,  
Under whose form, was hidden heavenly power,  
Then in that river would I most delight,  
Whose waves do beat, against her stately bower,  
And in those banks, so tune my dying song,  
That her deaf ears, would think my plaint too long.   

Else would I were, Narcissus, that sweet boy,  
And she herself, the sacred fountain clear,  
Who ravished with the pride of his own joy,  
Drenched his limbs, with gazing over near:   

So should I bring, my soul to happy rest,  
To end my life, in that I loved best.   

WHo plucks thee down from high desire poor heart? 
Care.   
Who comforts thee in depth of thy distress? 
Care.   
Amid contents, who breeds thy secret smart? 
Care.   
Who seeks the mean, thy sorrows may be less? 
Care.    

Who calls thy wits together to their work: 
Care.   
Who warns thy will, to follow wary wit? 
Care.   
Who lets thee see in love what sorrows lurk? 
Care.   
Who makes thee feel the force of fancies fit? 
Care.    

Who taught thee first to try before thou trust? 
Care.   
Who bids thee keep a faithful tried friend? 
Care.   
Who wills thee say, love wantoness he that lust? 
Care.   
Who wins the wish, that hath a happy end? 
Care.    

Care then to keep, that faithful friend in store,  
Whose love commands, that thou shalt care no more.   

THose eyes that holds the hand of every heart,  
Those hands that holds the heart of every eye,  
That wit that goes beyond all nature's Art,  
That sense too deep, for wisdom to descry,  
That eye, that hand, that wit, that heavenly sense,  
All these doth show my Mistress Excellence.   

Oh eyes that pierce into the purest heart,  
Oh hands that hold, the highest hearts in thrall,  
Oh wit that ways the depth of all desert,  
Oh sense that shows, the secret sweet of all,  
The heaven of heavens, with heavenly powers preserve thee,  
Love but thyself, and give me leave to serve thee.   

To serve, to live, to look upon those eyes,  
To look, to live, to kiss that heavenly hand,   

To sound that wit, that doth amaze the wise,  
To know that sense, no sense can understand,  
To understand that all the world may know,  
Such wit, such sense, eyes, hands, there are no more.   

WHo list to hear the sum of sorrows state,  
The depth of dole, wherein a mind may dwell,  
The loathed life, that happy hearts may hate,  
The saddest tale, that ever tongue could tell,  
But read this verse, and say who wrote the same,  
Doth only dwell, where comfort never came.   

A careful head, first crossed with crooked hap,  
A woeful wit, bewitched with wretched will,  
A climbing heart, fallen down from Fortune's lap,  
A body borne, to lose his labour still,  
A mourning mind, sore mated with despite,  
May serve to show, the lack of my delight.   

Yet more than this, a hope still found in vain,  
A vile despair, that speaks but of distress,  
A forced content, to suffer deadly pain,  
A pain so great, as can not get redress,  
Will all affirm, my sum of sorrow such,  
As never man, that ever knew so much.   

AS rare to hear, as seldom to be seen,  
It can not be, nor ever yet hath been,  
That fire should burn, with perfect heat and flame,  
Without some matter for to yield the same.   

A stranger case, yet true by proof I know,  
A man in joy, that lived still in woe,  
Burnt with desire, and doth possess at will,  
Enjoying all, yet all desiring still.   

Who hath enough, yet thinks he lives without,  
To want no love, and yet to stand in doubt,  
What discontent, to live in such desire,  
To have his will, yet ever to require.   

THe time, when first I fell in Love,  
Which now I must lament,  
The year, wherein I lost such time,  
to compass my content.   

The day, wherein I saw too late,  
The follies of a Lover,  
The hour, wherein I found such loss,  
As care cannot recover.   

And last, the minute of mishap,  
Which makes me thus to plain,  
The doleful fruits of lovers suits,  
Which labour lose in vain:   

Doth make me solemnly protest,  
As I with pain do prove,  
There is no time, year, day, nor hour,  
Nor minute, good to love.   

WHen day is gone, and darkness come,  
The toiling tired wight,  
Doth use to ease his weary bones,  
By rest in quiet night.   

When storm is stayed, and harbour won,  
The Sea man set on shore,  
With comfort doth requite the care,  
Of perils passed before.  
When Love hath won, where it did woe,  
And light where it delights,  
Contented mind, thenceforth forgets,  
The frown of former spites.   

THough neither tears nor torments can be thought,  
Nor death itself too dear to be sustained,  
To win those joys so worthy to be sought,  
So rare to reach, so sweet to be obtained.   

Yet earnest Love, with longing to aspire,  
To that which hope holds in so high regard,  
Makes time delayed, a torment to desire,  
When Love with hope forbears his just reward.   

Then blessed hope haste on thy happy days,  
Save my desire, by shortening thy dealays.    

A notable description of the World.  

OF thick and thin, 
Mixtures.  light, heavy, dark and clear,  
White, 
Colours.  black, & blue, red, green, & purple die:  
Gold, 
Metals.  Silver, Brass, Led, Iron, Tin, and Copper,  
Moist air, 
Elements.  hot fire, cold water, earth full dry:  
Blood, 
Complexions.  Choler, Phlegm, and Melancholy by,  
A mixed mass, 
Chaos.  a Chaos all confused,  
Such was the world, till God division used.   

In framing heaven and earth, God did divide,  
The first days light, and darkth, to night and day.  
The second, he a firmament applied,  
Third, fruitful earth appeerd, Seas took their way,  
Fourth, Sun and Moon, with Stars in skies he fixed,  
Fift, Fish and Fowl, the Sea and land possessed,  
And God made Man, like to himself, the sixth:  
The seventh day, when all things he had blest:  
He hallowed that, and therein took his rest.   
W. S. Gent.   


BY wrack late driven on shore, from Cupid's Crare,  
Whose sails of error, sighs of hope and fear,  
Conveyed through seas of tears, and sands of care,  
Till rocks of high disdain, her sides did tear,  
I writ a dirge, for doleful doves to sing,  
With self same quill, I plucked from Cupid's wing.   

Farewell unkind, by whom I far so ill,  
Whose looks bewitched my thoughts with false surmise,  
Till forced reason did unbind my will,  
And showed my heart, the folly of mine eyes,  
And said, attending where I should attain,  
Twixt wish and want, was but a pleasing pain.   

Farewell unkind, my float is at an ebb,  
My troubled thoughts, are turned to quiet wars,  
My fancies hope hath spun and spent her web,  
My former wounds, are closed up with scars,  
As ashes lie, long since consumed with fire,  
So is my love, so now is my desire.   

Farewell unkind, my first and final love,  
Whose coy contempts, it boots not here to name,  
But gods are just, and every star above,  
Doth threat revenge, where faith's reward is blame,  
And I may live, though your despised thrall,  
By fond mischoyce, to see your fortunes fall.   

Farewell unkind, most cruel of your kind,  
By whom my worth, is drowned in disdains,  
As was my love, so is your judgement blind,  
My fortune ill, and such hath been my gains,  
But this for all, I list no more to say,  
Farewell fair proud, not lives, but loves decay.   

THe gentle season of the year,  
Hath made my blooming branch appear,  
And beautified the land with flowers,  
The air doth savour with delight,  
The heavens do smile, to see the sight,  
And yet mine eyes, augments their showers.   

The meads are mantled all with green,  
The trembling leaves, have clothed the treen,  
The birds with feathers new do sing,  
But I poor soul, when wrong doth wrack,  
Attires my slfe in mourning black,  
Whose leaf doth fall amid his spring.   

And as you see the scarlet Rose,  
In his sweet prime, his buds disclose,  
Whose hew is with the Sun revived,  
So in the April of mine age,  
My lively colours do assuage,  
Because my Sunshine is deprived.   

My heart that wont was of yore,  
Light as the wind abroad to sore,  
Amongst the buds when beauty springs,  
Now only hovers over you,  
As doth the bird that's taken new,  
And mourns when all her neighbours sings.   

When every man is bend to sport,  
Then pensive I alone resort,  
Into some solitary walk,  
As doth the doleful Turtle dove,  
Who having lost her faithful love,  
Sits mourning on some withered stalk.   

There to myself, I do recount,  
How far my woes, my joys surmount,  
How Love requiteth me with hate:  
How all my pleasures end in pain,  
How hate doth say, my hope is vain,  
How fortune frowns upon my state.   

And in this mood, charged with despair,  
With vapored sighs, I dim the air,  
And to the Gods make this request:  
That by the ending of my life,  
I may have truce with this strange strife,  
And bring my soul to better rest.    

A Counterlove.  

DEclare O mind, from fond desires excluded,  
That thou didst find erewhile, by Love deluded.   

An eye, the plot, whereon Love sets his gin,  
Beauty, the trap, wherein the heedless fall,  
A smile, the train, that draws the simple in,  
Sweet words, the wily instrument of all,  
Entreaties posts, fair promises are charms,  
Writing, the messenger, that woos our harms.   

Mistress, and servant, titles of mischance:  
commandments done, the act of slavery,  
Their colours worn, a clownish cognisance,  
And double duty, petty drudgery,  
And when she twines and dallies with thy locks,  
Thy freedom then is brought into the stocks.   

To touch her hand, her hand binds thy desire,  
To wear her ring, her ring is Nessus' gift,  
To feel her breast, her breast doth blow the fire,  
To see her bare, her bare a baleful drift,  
To bait thine eyes thereon, is loss of sight,  
To think of it, confounds thy senses quite.   

Kisses the keys, to sweet consuming sin,  
Closing, Cleopatra's adders at thy breast,  
Feigned resistance than she will begin,  
And yet unsatiable in all the rest,  
And when thou dost unto the act proceed,  
The bed doth groan, and tremble at the deed.   

Beauty, a silver dew that falls in May,  
Love is an Eggshell, with that humour filled,  
Desire, a winged boy, coming that way,  
Delights and dallies with it in the field,  
The fiery Sun, draws up the shell on high,  
Beauty decay, Love dies, desire doth sly.   

Vnharmd give ear, that thing is haply caught,  
That cost some dear, if thou mayst have't for nought.   

AS joy of joys, and never dying bliss,  
Is to behold that mighty power divine,  
Nor may we crave more blessedness than this,  
With face to face, to see his glory shine,  
So here on earth, the only good I find  
Is your sweet sight, my whole content of mind.   

If to the heart, mine eye doth truth impart,  
More fair of late, than erst before you seem,  
Which beauty, though it breed my endless smart,  
Yet still I love and worthily esteem,  
And if those beams, would shine upon me still,  
Then had I heaven, and happiness at will.   

Some things by smelling live, as fame report,  
And some the water joy, to their desire,  
The subtle air, contents another sort,  
And other some by taste and touch of fire,  
If such can live with things of small delight,  
Much more should I, enjoying of your sight,   

SEt me where Phoebus' heat, the flowers slayeth,  
Or where continual snow withstands his forces,  
Set me where he his temprate rays displaieth,  
Or where he comes, or where he never courses.   

Set me in Fortune's grace; or else discharged,  
In sweet and pleasant air, or dark and glooming,  
Where days and nights, are lesser, or enlarged,  
In years of strength, in failing age, or blooming.   

Set me in heaven, or earth, or in the centre,  
Low in a vale, or on a mountain placed,  
Set me to danger, peril, and adventure,  
Graced by Fame, or infamy disgraced.   

Set me to these, or any other trial,  
Except my Mistress anger and denial.   

I saw the eyes, that have my seeing bound,  
I hard the tongue, that made my speech to stay,  
Her wit, my thoughts did captive and confound,  
And with her graces, drew my life away,  
Unto her life, in whom my senses lives,  
My spirit up himself, for tribute gives.   

She saw mine eyes, and they recovered light,  
She spoke to me, and I had power to speak,  
She graced me, and I regained sprite,  
She freed my heart, that ready was to break,  
My life, that erst beginning had in me,  
Now by her being, doth begin to be.   

Mine eyes, behold the beauty reigns in her,  
Speak tongue of her, that nothing is but wonder,  
To honour her, my spirits only stir,  
Serve her my heart, or heart divide asunder:  
And life, live in the favour she hath shown,  
Whereby thou hast more strength than was thine own.   

Mistress, this grace, unto your servant give,  
Thus for to live, or not at all to live.   

Narcissus' never by desire distressed,  
Elected for the solace of his dwelling,  
The divers coullerd Meadow lively dressed,  
And fed with currant fresh, of waters swelling.   

The while he lives in liberty, thrice blessed,  
Love sees, and envieth his life excelling,  
And in the waters straight, a shape expressed,  
The poison of his life, and freedoms quelling.   

So careless I, that rome forth unarmed,  
Not dreading Love, who watches rebels narrow,  
No sooner saw her eyes, than inly warmed,  
With unperceived flames within the marrow.   

And yet of both, myself most deeply harmed,  
With waters he? I with a burning arrow,  
He drowned in waves, the which his tears did cherish,  
I live in fire, and die; and yet not perish.   

THe firmament, with golden stars adorned,  
The sailors watchful eyes, full well contenteth,  
And afterward with tempest overspread,  
The absent lights of heaven, he sore lamenteth.   

Your face, the firmament of my repose,  
Long time have kept, my waking thoughts delighted,  
But now the clouds of sorrow overgoes  
Your glorious skies, wherewith I am affrighted.   

For I that have my life and fortunes placed,  
Within the ship, that by those planets saileth,  
By envious chance, am overmuch disgraced,  
Seeing the Lodestar of my courses faileth.   

And yet content to drown, without repining,  
To have my stars afford the world their shining.   

CEase restless thoughts, surcharged with heaviness,  
Love, fortune, and disdain, with their endeavour,  
The forces of my life will soon dissever,  
Without the sting of your unquietness.   

And thou oh heart, guilty of my distress,  
To harbour these fair foes, dost still persever,  
Whereby thou showst false traitor, thou hadst liefer  
Their conquest, than mine ease and happiness.   

In thee, loves messengers have taken dwelling,  
Fortune in thee, her pomp triumphant spreadeth,  
Disdain hath spent on thee, her bitter swelling,  
Thus thou the root, from whence my woes proceedeth.   

Cease then vain thoughts, no more my sorrows double.  
Love, fortune, and disdain, enough of trouble.   

THinking upon the name, by Love engraved,  
Within my heart, to be my lives director,  
The value of the whole entirely saved,  
I read upon the syllables this lecter,  
Marvel, the first into my spirits soundeth,  
And marveling at her, the marvel woundeth.   

I seek to Gain, as by the second's ment,  
An interest in this admired marvel,  
But cannot find a mean sufficient,  
So hie a rated Gem to countervail,  
There is no weight in fire ordained to shine,  
Nor counterworth of any thing divine.   

The last doth give me counsel to Retire,  
And rest content, that Love hath blest my sight,  
And touched my fancy with th'immortal fire,  
Of this divine, and precious Margaret,  
And thank my fortune of exceeding favour,  
As to be thralled to so sweet behaviour.   

O See my heart, uncertain what effect,  
Shall finally ensue so high a scope,  
See what it is, a Master to neglect,  
To have a Mistress entertained on hope,  
He whom it was thy fortune first to serve,  
As she doth now, could never see thee starve.   

There meanly lodged, yet merry were thy days,  
Here, high conceited intermixed with fear,  
There, words and works all one, here great delays,  
There, things were in their kind, here as they were,  
Thy hopes there small, but yet assured Love,  
And here though great, God knows if any prove.   

Yet must I not discourage thine intent,  
All pains and torments suffered for her sake,  
May be in fine well answered by event,  
If so thy suit in time effect may take,  
But tell her what thy former Master says,  
Cursed is he that dieth through delays.   

TO make a truce, sweet Mistress with your eyes,  
How often have I proffered you my heart,   

Which proffers unesteemed you despise,  
As far to mean, to equal your desert,  
Your mind wherein, all high perfections flow,  
Deigns not the thought, of things that are so low,   

To strive to alter his desires, were vain,  
Whose vowed heart, affects no other place,  
The which since you despise, I do disdain,  
To count it mine, as erst before it was:  
For that is mine, which you alone allow,  
As I am yours, and only live for you.   

Now if I him forsake, and he not find,  
His wretched exile, succoured by your eyes,  
He can not yield, to serve another's mind,  
Nor live alone, for nature that denies,  
Then die he must, for other choice is none,  
But live in you, or me, or die alone.   

Whose hapless death, when Fame abroad hath blown,  
Blame and reproach, procures unto us both,  
I, as unkind, forsaking so mine own,  
But you much more, from whom the rigour groweth,  
And so much more, will your dishonour be,  
By how much more, it loved you than me.   

Sweet Lady then, the heart's misfortune rue,  
Whose love and service evermore was true.   

SEeing those eyes, that with the Sun contendeth,  
For majesty of light, and excellence,  
A quickening pleasure secretly descendeth  
Into my heart, by subtle influence.   

Not seeing them, horror my bliss depriveth,  
And I, as one, by public law convicted,  
Whom rigorously, the hedsman onward driveth  
To shameful death, most heavily afflicted.   

I only live, when I behold your shining,  
Bright stars, rare lights, sweet authors of my gladness,  
Absent from you, my heart in sorrow pining,  
Doth feed on tears, on anguish, grief, and sadness.   

Then marvel not, if I desire access,  
Unto the fountain of my happiness.   

TO shun the death, my rare and chosen jewel,  
That covertly, within your eyes sojourneth,  
I fly, and flying feel the fire, more cruel,  
Wherewith offended, love my spirits burneth.   

A death most painful, and the pain more bitter,  
Then I return, resolved in opinion,  
Since I must die, near, or far of, 'tis fit,  
To end my life, within her eyes dominion.   

O then display (fair Eyes) your influence,  
That I, into the deeper flames ascending,  
Fall soon to ashes, by her excellence,  
And better be contented with my ending.   

And all removed, that my quiet hinders,  
Rake up both love, and life, within those cinders.   

OF all the woes my pensive heart endureth,  
It grieves me most, when I my sorrows frame,  
I know not what, this wretchedness procureth,  
Nor whereupon I am to cast the blame.   

The fault is not in her, for well I see,  
I am unworthy of her grace, in this,  
Nor yet in love, who hath vouchsafed me,  
To know within this life so rare a bliss.   

To grieve me of my sight, then comes to mind,  
As head and author of my hapless woes:  
But better afterward advised, I find,  
That only from her looks, all sweetness flows.   

And when just cause of sorrowing doth fail,  
I wail in fine, because I cannot wail.   

Divide my times, and rate my wretched hours,  
From day to month, from month to many years,  
And then compare my sweetest to my sours,  
To see which more in equal view appears,  
And judge, if for my days and years of care,  
I have but hours of comfort to compare.   

Just and not much, it were in these extremes,  
So hard a touch, and torment of the thought,  
For any mind, that any right esteems,  
To yield so small delight, so dearly bought,  
But he that lives but in his own despite,  
Is not to find his fortune by his right.   

The life that still runs forth her weary ways,  
With sour to sauce the dainties of delight,  
And care to choke the pleasure of her days,  
And no reward, those many wrongs to quite,  
No blame to hold such irksome time in hate,  
As but to loss, prolongs a wretched state.   

And so I loathe, even to behold the light,  
That shines without all pleasure to mine eyes,  
With greedy wish, I wait still for the night,  
Yet neither this I find, that may suffice,  
Not that I hold, the day in more delight,  
But that alike, I loathe both day and night.   

The day I see, yields but increase to care,  
The night that should, by nature serve to rest,  
Against her kind, denies such ease to spare,  
As pity would afford the soul oppressed,  
And broken sleeps oft times present in sight,  
A dreaming wish, beguiled with false delight.   

The sleep, or else what so for sweet appears,  
Is unto me but pleasure in despite,  
The flower of age, the name of younger years,  
Do but usurp the title of delight,  
For careful thought, and sorrow sundry ways,  
Consumes my youth, before my aged days.   

The touch, the sting, the torment of desire,  
To strive beyond the compass of restraint,  
Kept from the reach whereto it would aspire,  
Gives cause (God knows) too just to my complaint,  
Besides the wrongs, which now with my distress,  
My meaning is, in silence to suppress.   

Oft with myself, I enter in device,  
To reconcile these weary thoughts to peace,  
I treat for truce, I flatter and entice,  
My wrangling wits, to work for their release,  
But all in vain, I seek the means to find,  
That might appease, the discord of my mind.   

For when I force a feigned mirth in shoe,  
And would forget, and so beguile my grief,  
I cannot rid myself of sorrow so,  
Although I feed upon a false belief,  
For inward touch of uncontented mind,  
Returns my cares, by course unto their kind.   

Weaned from my will, and thus by trial taught,  
How for to hold, all fortune in regard,  
Though here I boast, a knowledge dearly bought,  
Yet this poor gain, I reap for my reward,  
I learn hereby, to harden and prepare,  
A ready mind, for all assaults of care.   

Whereto, as one, even from my cradle borne,  
And not to look for better to ensue,  
I yield myself, and wish these times outworn,  
That but remain, my torments to renew,  
And leave to those, these days of my despite,  
Whose better hap, may live to more delight.    

A description of love.  

NOw what is Love, I pray thee tell,  
It is that fountain and that well,  
Where pleasure and repentance dwell,  
It is perhaps that sauncing bell,  
That tolls all in to heaven or hell,  
And this is Love as I hear tell.   

Yet what is Love, I pray thee say?  
It is a work, on holy day,  
It is December matched with May,  
When lusty bloods in fresh array,  
Hear ten months after of the play,  
And this is Love as I hear say.   

Yet what is Love, I pray thee sane?  
It is a Sunshine mixed with rain,  
It is a tooth ache, or like pain,  
It is a game, where none doth gain,  
The Lass saith no, and would full feign,  
And this is Love, as I hear sane.   

Yet what is Love, I pray thee say,  
It is a yea, it is a nay,  
A pretty kind of sporting fray,  
It is a thing will soon away:  
Then take the vantage while you may,  
And this is Love, as I hear say.   

Yet what is Love I pray thee shoe,  
A thing that creeps, it cannot go,  
A prize that passeth to and fro,  
A thing for one, a thing for more,  
And he that proves must find it so,  
And this is Love (sweet friend) I trow.    

The description of jealousy.  

A Seeing friend, yet enemy to rest,  
A wrangling passion, yet a gladsome thought,  
A bad companion, yet a welcome guest,  
A knowledge wished, yet found too soon unsought,  
From heaven supposed, yet sure condemned to hell,  
Is jealousy, and there forlorn doth dwell.   

And thence doth send fond fear and false suspect,  
To haunt our thoughts bewitched with mistrust,  
Which breeds in us the issue and effect,  
Both of conceits and actions far unjust,  
The grief, the shame, the smart, whereof doth prove,  
That jealousy's both death and hell to love.   

For what but hell moves in the jealous heart,  
Where restless fear works out all wanton joys,  
Which doth both quench and kill the loving part,  
And cloies the mind with worse than known annoys,  
Whose pressure far exceeds hell's deep extremes,  
Such life leads Love entangled with misdeemes.   

AH poor Conceit, delight is dead,  
Thy pleasant days are done,  
The shady dales must be his walk,  
That cannot see the sun.   

The world I now to witness call,  
The heavens my records be:  
If ever I were false to Love,  
Or Love were true to me.   

I know it now, I knew it not,  
But all too late I rue it,  
I rue not that I knew it not,  
But that I ever knew it.   

My care is not a fond conceit,  
That breeds a feigned smart,  
My griefs do gripe me at the gall,  
And gnaw me at the heart.   

My tears are not those feigned drops,  
That fall from fancy's eyes,  
But bitter streams of strange distress,  
Wherein discomfort lies.   

My sighs are not those heavy sighs,  
That shows a sickly breath,  
My passions are the perfect signs,  
And very pains of death.   

In sum to make a doleful end,  
To see my death so nigh,  
That sorrow bids me sing my last,  
And so my senses die.   

SHort is my rest, whose toil is overlong,  
My joys are dark, but clear I see my voe,  
My safety small: great wracks I bide by wrong,  
Whose time is swift, and yet my hap but slow,  
Each grief and wound, in my poor heart appears,  
That laugheth hours, and weary many years.   

Deeds of the day, are fables for the night,  
Sighs of desire, are smokes of thoughtful tears,  
My steps are false, although my paths be right,  
Disgrace is bold, and favour full of fears,  
Disquiet sleep, keeps audit of my life,  
Where rare content, doth make displeasure rife.   

The doleful bell, that is the voice of time,  
Calls on my end, before my haps be seen,  
Thus falls my hopes, whose harms have power to climb,  
Not come to have that long in wish hath been,  
I seek your love, and fear not others hate,  
Be you with me, and I have Caesar's state.    

The praise of Virginity.  

Virginity resembleth right the Rose,  
That gallantly within the garden grows,  
Whilst in the mother's body it doth stand,  
Of nibbling sheep untouched, or shepherd's hand.  
The air thereon, and ruddy morn doth smile,  
The earth and waters, favours it that while,  
Brave lusty youth, and the enamoured Dame,  
Even so doth age, and temples crave the same.   

But when from natural stalk, it is removed,  
And place where it, so highly was beloved,  
The grace that earth, and heaven thereon did cast,  
With beauty, favour, love, and all, is past.   

Even so the Maid, when once her flower is lost,  
More dear than eye, or life, or what is most,  
The love and liking which she had before,  
foregoeth quite, and she esteemed no more.   

Lady's lenvoy to you that have this prize,  
I read ye hold your won, if yiou be wise.   

ONight, O jealous night, repugnant to my pleasures,  
O night so long desired, yet cross to my content,  
there's none but only thou that can perform my pleasures,  
Yet none but only thou that hindereth my intent.   

Thy beams, thy spiteful beams, thy lamps that burn to brightly,  
Discover all my trains, and naked lay my drifts,  
That night by night I hope, yet fail my purpose nightly,  
Thy envious glaring gleam defeateth so my shifts.   

Sweet night withhold thy beams, withhold them till to morrow,  
Whose joys in lack so long, a hell of torments breeds,  
Sweet night, sweet gentle night, do not prolong my sorrow,  
Desire is guide to me, and Love no Lodestar needs.   

Let Sailors gaze on stars and Moon so freshly shining,  
Let them that miss the way be guided by the light,  
I know my Lady's bower, there needs no more divining,  
Affection sees in dark, and Love hath eyes by night.   

Dame Cynthia couch awhile, hold in thy horns for shining,  
And glad not lowering night, with thy too glorious rays,  
But be she dim and dark, tempestuous and repining,  
That in her spite, my sport may work thy endless praise.   

And when my will is wrought, than Cynthia shine good Lady,  
All other nights and days, in honour of that night,  
That happy heavenly night, that night so dark and shady,  
Wherein my Love had eyes, that lighted my delight.   

Sweet Violets (loves paradise) that spread  
Your gracious odours, which you couched bear,  
Within your paly faces,  
Upon the gentle wing of some calm breathing wind,  
That plays amidst the plain,  
If by the favour of propitious stars you gain,  
Such grace as in my Lady's bosom place to find,  
Be proud to touch those places,  
And when her warmth your moisture forth doth wear,  
Whereby her dainty parts are sweetly fed,  
Your honours of the flowery meads I pray,  
You pretty daughters of the earth and Sun,  
With mild and seemly breathing strait display,  
My bitter sighs that have my heart undone.   

Vermilion Roses that with new days rise,  
Display your Crimson folds fresh looking fair,  
Whose radiant bright, disgraces  
The rich adorned rays of Roseate rising morn,  
(Ah) if her virgin's hand  
Do pluck your pure, ere Phoebus view the land,  
And vail your gracious pomp in lovely nature's scorn,  
If chance my Mistress traces,  
Fast by your flowers to take the summers air,  
Then woeful blushing tempt her glorious eyes,  
To spread their tears Adonis' death reporting,  
And tell loves torments sorrowing for her friend,  
Whose drops of blood within your leaus consorting  
Report fair Venus' moans withouten end.   

Then may remorse (in pitying of my smart)  
Dry up my tears, and dwell within her heart.   

A Vrora now, began to rise again,  
From watery couch, and from old Tithon's side,  
In hope to kiss upon Acteian plain,  
Young Shafalus, and through the golden glide,   

On Eastern coast, she cast so great a light,  
That Phoebus thought it time to make retire,  
From Thetis' Bower, wherein he spent the night,  
To light the world again with heavenly fire.   

Nor sooner 'gan his winged steeds to chase,  
The Stygian night, mantled with dusky vale,  
But poor Amyntas, hasteth him apace,  
In deserts thus, to weep a woeful tale.   

Now silent shades, and all that dwell therein,  
As Birds, or Beasts, or Worms that creep on ground,  
Dispose yourselves to tears, while I begin,  
To rue the grief, of mine eternal wound.   

And doleful ghosts, whose nature flies the light,  
Come seat yourselves with me on every side,  
And whilst I die for want of my delight,  
Lament the woes that Fancy me betide.   

Phillis is dead, the mark of my desire,  
My cause of love, and shipwreck of my joys,  
Phillis is gone, that set my heart on fire,  
That clad my thoughts with ruinous annoys.   

Phillis is fled, and bides I wots not where,  
Phillis (alas) the praise of woman kind,  
Phillis the Sun of this our hemisphere,  
Whose beams made me and many others blind.   

But blinded me (poor man) above the rest,  
That like old Oedipus, I live in thrall,  
Still feel the worst, and never hope the best,  
My mirth in moan, my honey drowned in gall.   

Her fair, but cruel eyes, bewitched my sight,  
Her sweet, but fading speech, enthralled my thought,  
And in her deeds, I reaped such delight,  
As brought both will, and liberty to nought.   

Therefore all hope of happiness adieu,  
Adieu desire the source of all my care,  
Despair me tells my weal will near renew,  
Till this my soul, doth pass in Charon's Crare.   

Mean time my mind must suffer Fortune's scorn,  
My thoughts still wound, like wounds that still are green  
My weakened limbs, be laid on beds of thorn,  
My life decay, although my death foreseen.   

Mine eyes, now eyes no more, but seas of tears,  
Weep on your fill, to cool my burning breast,  
Where Love did place desire, twixt hope, and fears,  
(I say) desire, the author of unrest.   

And (would to gods) Phillis where ere thou be,  
Thy soul did see, the sour of mine estate,  
My joys eclipsed, for only want of thee,  
My being with myself at foul debate.   

My humble vows, my sufferance of woe,  
My sobs, and sighs, my everwatching eyes,  
My plaintiff tears, my wandering to and fro,  
My will to die, my never ceasing cries.   

No doubt but then, thy sorrows would persuade,  
The doom of death, to cut my vital twist,  
That I with thee, amidst th'infernal shade,  
And thou with me, might sport us as we list.   

O if thou wait on fair Proserpina's train,  
And hearest Orpheus, near th'elysian springs,  
Entreat thy Queen, to free thee thence again,  
And let the Thracian guide thee with his strings.   
T. W. Gent.   


AWay despair, the death of hopeless hearts,  
For hope and truth, assure me long ago,  
That pleasure is the end of lingering smarts,  
When time, with just content, rewardeth woe.   

Sweet virtues throne is built in labours tower,  
Where Laurel wreath's are twist for them alone,  
Whose galls are burst with often taste of sour,  
Whose bliss from bale is sprung, whose mirth from moan.   

I therefore strive by toils, to raise my name,  
And jason like, to gain a golden fleece,  
The end of every work doth crown the same,  
As witness well, the happy harms of Greece:  
For if the Greeks, had soon got Priam's seat,  
The glory of their pains, had not been great.   
T. W. Gent.   


I Hope and fear, that for my weal or woe,  
That heavenly lamp, which yields both heat & light,  
To make a throne, for gods on earth below,  
Is cut in twain, and fixed in my delight,  
Which two fair hemispheres, through light & heat,  
Planting desire, drive reason from her seat.   

No, no, my too forgetful tongue blasphemes,  
I should have said, that where these hemispheres,  
In hearts, through eyes, fix hot and lightsome beams,  
There reason works desire, and hopes breed fears,  
O only object, for an eagle's eye,  
Whose light, and heat, make men to live and die.   

Twixt these, a dainty paradise doth lie,  
As sweet as in the Sun the Phoenix Bower,  
As white as snow, as smooth as ivory,  
As fair, as Psyche's bosom, in that hour,  
When she disclosed the box of Beauty's Queen,  
All this and more, is in Sibilla seen.   
T. W. Gent.   


SIr painter, are thy colours ready set,  
My Mistress can not be with thee to day,  
she's gone into the field to gather May,  
The timely primrose, and the Violet:  
Yet that thou mayst, not disappointed be,  
Come draw her picture by my fantasee.   

And well for thee, to paint her by thine ear,  
For should thine eye, unto that office serve,  
Thine Eye, and Hand, thy Art, & heart, would swerver,  
Such majesty her countenance doth bear,  
And where thou wert Apelles thought before,  
For failing so, thou shouldst be praised no more.   

Draw first her Front, a perfect ivory white,  
Hie, spacious, round, and smooth on either side,  
Her temples branched with veins, blue, opening wide.  
As in the Map, Danubius runs in sight:  
Colour her semicircled brows with jet,  
The throne where Love triumphantly doth set.   

Regard her Eye, her eye, a wondrous part,  
It woundeth deep, and cureth by and by,  
It drives away, and draweth courteously,  
It breeds and calms, the tempest of the heart,  
And what to lightning jove, belongeth too,  
The same her looks, with more effect can do.   

Her Cheek, resembleth every kind of way,  
The Lily stained, with sweet Adonis' blood,  
As wounded he strayed up and down the wood,  
For whom fair Venus languished many a day,  
Or plainly more to answer your demaune,  
Her cheeks are Roses, overcast with lawn.   

Her lovely Lip, doth others all excel,  
On whom it please (ay me) a kiss bestoe,  
He never tasteth afterward of woe,  
Such special virtue in the toutch doth dwell:  
The colour tempered of the morning red,  
Where with Aurora doth adorn her head.   

Her ample Chest, an heavenly plot of ground,  
The space between, a Paradise at least,  
Parnassus' like, her twifolde mounting breast,  
Her heavenly graces, heapingly abound,  
Love spreads his conquering colours in this field,  
Whereto the race of Gods and men do yield.   

The other parts, which custom doth conceal,  
Within a sarsenet vail thou must convey,  
So due proportion well discern I may,  
What though the garment do not all reveal,  
The shadow of a naked thigh may freight,  
His head brim full, hath any fine conceit.   

Before her Feet, upon a Marble stone,  
Inflamed with the Sunbeams of her eye,  
Depaint my heart that burneth passionately,  
And if thy pencil can set down such moan,  
Thy picture self, will teeling semblance make,  
Of ruth and pity for my torments sake.   

How now Apelles, are thy senses ta'en?  
Hast drawn a picture, or drawn out thy heart?  
Wilt thou be held a Master of thine art,  
And temper colours tending to thy bane?  
Happy my heart, that in her Sunshine fries,  
Above thy hap that in her shadow dies.   

I Pray thee Love, say, whither is this posting,  
Since with thy deity first I was acquainted,  
I never saw thee thus distracted coasting,  
With countenance tainted.   

Thy conquering arrows broken in thy quiver,  
Thy brands that wont the inward marrow sunder,  
Fireles and forceles, all a pieces shiver,  
With much wonder.   

That maketh next my stayless thoughts to hover,  
I cannot sound this uncouth cause of being,  
The vail is torn that did thy visage cover,  
And thou art seeing.   

A stranger, one (quoth Love) of good demerit,  
Did suit and service to his Sovereign proffer,  
In any case she would not seem to hear it,  
But scorned the offer.   

And very now upon this Maying morrow,  
By break of day, he found me at my harbour,  
I went with him, to understand his sorrow,  
Unto her Arbour   

Where he Love torments dolefully unfolded,  
With words, that might a Tiger's heart have charmed,  
His sighs and tears, the mountain ye had moulted,  
And she not warmed.   

Her great disdain against her Lover proved,  
Kindled my brand, that to her breast I seated,  
The flame between her paps, them often moved.  
Nor burned, nor heated.   

My arrows keen I afterward assayed,  
Which from her breast without effect rebounded.  
And as a ball, on Marble floor the played,  
With force confounded.   

The brand that burned, old Priam's Town to ashes,  
Now first his operation, wants it than,  
The darts that Emerald skies in pieces dasshes,  
Scorned by a woman.   

Thus while I said, she toward me arrived,  
And with a touch of triumph, never doubted,  
To tear the vail, that use of sight bereaved,  
So Love was louted.   

The vail of erroe, from mine eyes bereaved,  
I saw heavens hope, and earth her treasury,  
Well mayst thou err said I, I am deceived,  
Bend to pleasure thee.   

Cease hapless man, my succours to importune,  
She only she, my stratagems repelleth,  
Vainly endeour I, to tempt her Fortune,  
That so excelleth.   

Content thee man, that thou didst see and suffer,  
And be content, to suffer, see, and die,  
And die content, because thou once didst move her,  
She displeased thereby.   

And herewithal I left the man a dying,  
For by his passions I perceived none other,  
I hie me thus ashamed with speedy flying,  
To tell my Mother.   
FINIS.