FIDELIA. NEWLY CORRECTED and augmented, By GEORGE WITHERS of Lincoln's Inn Gentleman. LONDON Printed by E. G. for Thomas Walkley, and are to be sold at his shop at the Eagle and Child in Britain's Burse. 1619. THE STATIONER to the Reader. THis Epistle entitled Fidelia, was long since, imprinted to the use of the Author, who by the entreaty of some of his acquaintance was content to bestow it on such as had voluntarily requested it in way of an Adventure. But having dispersed many, and remembering how far it would be from his disposition to lay claim to proffered gratuities, he wholly repented himself of what indeed he never well approved of, and how justly soever he might have challenged, more than many would have lost, yet in steed of being beholding, is resolved, rather to make those that have received any of his Books a little beholding to him, in freely forgiving them their unurged promises: And forasmuch as he perceives that it hath delighted some, and is never likely to prejudice any, it hath pleased him that I should publish it to my own benefit, so long as I shall in the imprinting thereof carefully respect his credit, which as I never intent to fail of, on my part, so (hoping you that shall read it, will on your behalfs censure it with as little ill meaning to him as he had malice towards you in the composing thereof) I commit it to your discretions, and wish I could as well present you with all he hath been Author of. Yours, GEORGE NORTON. An elegiacal Epistle of Fidelia to her unconstant Friend. THE ARGUMENT. This elegiacal Epistle, being a fragment of some greater Poem, discovers the modest affections of a discreet and constant woman, shadowed under the name of Fidelia; wherein you may perceive the height of their passions, so far as they seem to agree with reason, and keep within such decent bounds as beseemeth their sex, but further it meddles not. The occasion seems to proceed from some mutability in her friend; whose objections she here presupposing, confuteth, and in the person of him, justly upbraideth all that are subject to the like change, or fickleness in mind. Among the rest some more weighty Arguments than are (perhaps) expected in such a subject, are briefly, and yet somewhat seriously handled. OFt I heard tell, and now for truth I find, Once out of sight, and quickly out of mind. And that it hath been rightly said of old, Love that's soonest hot, is ever soon cold. Or else my tears at this time had not stained The spotless paper, nor my lines complained. I had not now been forced to have sent These for the Nuncio's of my discontent; Or thus exchanged, so unhappily, My songs of mirth, to write an Elegy. But now I must; and since I must do so, Let me but crave thou wilt not flout my woe: Nor entertain my sorrows with a scoff, But at least read them, ere thou cast them off. And though thy heart's too hard to have compassion, If thou'lt not pity, do not blame my Passion. For well thou knowst (alas that ere 'twas known) There was a time (although that time be gone) I, that for this, scarce dare a beggar be, Presumed for more to have commanded thee. Yea the Day was (but see how things may change) When thou and I have not been half so strange; But oft embraced with a gentle greeting, And no worse words than Turtle. Dove, or Sweeting. Yea had thy meaning, and those vows of thine, Proved but as faithful, and as true as mine, It still had been so: (for I do not fain) I should rejoice it might be so again. But sith thy Love grows cold, and thou unkind, Be not displeased I somewhat breathe my mind, I am in hope my words may prove a mirror, Whereon thou looking, mayst behold thine error. And yet the Heaven, and my sad heart doth know, How grieved I am, and with what feeling woe My mind is tortured, to think that I Should be the brand of thy disloyalty: Or live, to be the author of a line, That shall be tainted with a fault of thine; (Since if that thou but slightly touched be, Deep wounds of grief, and shame, it strikes in me) And yet I must; ill hap compels me to What I near thought to have cause to do. And therefore seeing that some angry Fate Imposes on me, what I so much hate: Or since it is so, that the Powers divine Me miserable, to such cares assign; Oh that loves patron, or some sacred Muse Amongst my Passions, would such Art infuse, My well-framed words, and airy sighs might prove, The happy blasts to re-inflame thy love. Or at least touch thee with thy fault so near, That thou mightst see thou wrongd'st, who held thee dear: Seeing, confess the same, and so abhor it; Abhorring, pity, and repent thee for it. But (Dear) I hope that I may call thee so, For thou art dear to me, although a foe; Tell me, is't true that I do hear of thee, And by thy absence now, so seems to be? Can such abuse be in thy Court of Love, False and inconstant now, thou He shouldst prove? He that so woeful, and so pensive sat, Vowing his service at my feet of late? Art thou that quondam lover, whose sad eye I never saw yet, in my presence dry? And from whose gentle-seeming tongue I know So many pity-moving words could flow? Was't thou so soughtst my love, so seeking that As if it had been all th'hadst aimed at; Making me think thy Passion without stain, And gently quite thee with my love again: With this persuasion I so fairly placed it, Nor Time, nor Envy should have ere defaced it▪ Is't so? have I done thus much? and art thou So over-cloyed with my favours now? Art wearied since with loving, and estranged So far? Is thy affection so much changed, That I of all my hopes must be deceived, And all good thoughts of thee, be quite bereft? Then I find true, which long before this day, I feared myself, and heard some wiser say; That there is nought on earth so sweet, that can Long relish with the curious taste of man.. Happy was I; yea well it was with me, Before I came to be bewitched by thee. I joyed the sweetest content that ever Maid Possessed yet; and truly well-a-paid, Made to myself alone, as pleasant mirth As ever any Virgin did, on earth. The melody I used was free, and such, As that Bird makes, whom never hand did touch, But un-allured with Fowlers, whistling flies Above the reach of human treacheries. And well I do remember, often then Could I read o'er the policies of men, Discover what uncertainties they were, How they would sigh, look sad, protest, and swear, Nay feign to die, when they did never prove The slenderest touch of a right worthy love: But had chilled hearts, whose dullness understood No more of Passion, than they did of good. All which I noted well, and in my mind (A general humour amongst womenkind) This vow I made; (thinking to keep it than) That never the fair tongue of any man, Nor his complaint, though never so much grieved, Should move my heart to liking whilst I lived. But who can say what she shall live to do? I have believed, and let in liking too, And that so far, I cannot yet see how I may so much as hope, to help it now; Which makes me think, what e'er we women say, Another mind will come, another day: And that men may to things unhoped for clime, Who watch but Opportunity and Time. For 'tis well known, we were not made of clay, Or such course, and ill-tempered stuff as they, For he that framed us of their flesh, did deign When 'twas at best, to new refine 't again. Which makes us ever since the kinder Creatures, Of far more flexible, and yielding Natures. And as we oft excel in outward parts, So we have nobler, and more gentle hearts. Which you well knowing, daily do devise How to imprint on them your Cruelties. But do I find my cause thus bad indeed? Or else on things imaginary feed? Am I the lass that late so truly jolly, Made myself merry oft, at others folly? Am I the Nymph that Cupid's fancies blamed, That was so cold, so hard to be inflamed? Am I myself? or is myself that She Who from this Thraldom, or such falsehoods free, Late owned mine own heart, and full merry then, Did forewarn others to beware of Men, And could not, having taught them what to do, Now learn myself, to take heed of you too? Fool that I am; I fear my guerdons just, In that I knew this, and presumed to trust. And yet (alas) for aught that I could tell, One spark of goodness in the world might dwell. And then I thought, if such a thing might be, Why might not that one spark remain in thee? For thy fair ou-tside, and thy fairer tongue, Promised much although thy years were young. And Virtue, wheresoever she be now, Seemed them to sit enthroned upon thy brow. Yea sure it was; but whether 'twere or no, Certain I am I was persuaded so, Which made me loath to think that words of fashion Could be so framed, so over-laid with Passion, Or sighs so feeling feigned from any breast; Nay say thou hadst been false in all the rest, Yet from thine eye my heart such notice took, Me thought guile could not feign so sad a look. But now I've tried, my bought experience knows, They are oft worst that make the fairest shows. And howsoe'er men feign an outward grieving, 'Tis neither worth respecting, nor believing, For she that doth one to her mercy take, Warms in her bosom but a frozen snake: Which heated with her favours, gathers sense, And stings her to the heart in recompense. But tell me why, and for what secret spite You in poor women's miseries delight: For so it seems; else why d'ye labour for That, which when 'tis obtained, you do ahhor? Or to what end do you endure such pain To win our love, and cast it off again? Oh that we either your hard hearts could borrow, Or else your strengths to help us bear our sorrow! But we are cause of all this grief and shame, And we have none but our own selves to blame: For still we see your falsehoods for our learning, Yet never can have power to take't for warning; But as if borne to be deluded by you, We know you trustless, and yet still we try you. (Alas) what wrong was in my power to do thee? Or what despite have I e'er done unto thee? That thou shouldst choose Me, above all the rest, To be thy scorn, and thus be made a jest. Must men's ill natures such true villains prove them, To make them only wrong those most that love them? Couldst thou find none in Country, Town nor Court, But only Me, to make thy Fool, thy sport? Thou know'st I have no wanton courses run, Nor seemed easy unto lewdness won. And though I cannot boast me of much wit, Thou saw'st no sign of fondness in me yet. Nor did ill nature ever so o'er sway me, To flout at any that did woe or pray me. But grant I had been guilty of abusage, Of thee I'm sure I never deserved such usage. But thou were't grieved to behold my smile, When I was free from love, and thy beguilings. Or to what purpose else, didst thou bestow Thy time, and study to delude me so? Hast thou good parts? and dost thou bend them all To bring those that never hated thee in thrall? Prithee take heed, although thou yet enioy'st them They'll be took from thee, if thou so imploy'st them. For though I wish not the least harm to thee, I fear, the just Heavens will revenged be. Oh! what of Me by this time had become, If my desires with thine had happed to room, Or I, unwisely had consented to What (shameless) once thou didst attempt to do? I might have fallen, by those immodest tricks, Had not some power been stronger than my Sex. And if I should have so been drawn to folly, I saw thee apt enough to be unholy. Or if my weakness had been prone to sin, I poorly by thy strength had succoured been. You Men make us believe you do but try, And that's your part (you say) ours to deny. Yet I much fear, if we through frailty stray, There's few of you within your bounds will stay; But, maugre all your seeming Virtue, be As ready to forget yourselves, as we. I might have feared thy part of love not strong, When thou didst offer me so base a wrong. And that I after loathed thee not, did prove In me some extraordinary love. For sure had any other, but in thought, Presumed unworthily what thou hast sought, Might it appear, I should do thus much for him, With a scarce reconeiled hate abhor him. My young experience never yet did know Whether desire might range so far, or no, To make true Lovers carelessly request, What rash enjoying makes them most unblessed, Or blindly, thorough frailty give consenting To that, which done brings nothing but repenting. But in my judgement it doth rather prove That thou art fired with lust, then warmed with love. And if it be for proofemen so proceed, It shows a doubt, else what do trials need? And where is that man living ever knew That false distrust, could be with love that's true? Since the mere cause of that unblamed effect, Such an opinion is, as hates suspect. And yet I will thee, and thy love excuse, If thou wilt neither me, nor mine abuse. For I'll suppose thy passion made thee proffer That unto me, thou to none else wouldst offer. And so, think thou; if I have thee denied, Whom I more loved than all men else beside. What hope have they, such favours to obtain, That never half so much respect could gain? Such was my love that I did value thee Above all things below eternity. Nothing on Earth unto my heart was nearer, No joy so prized, nor no jewel dearer. Nay: I do fear I did Idolatrize, For which Heavens wrath inflicts these miseries, And makes the things which it for blessings sent, To be renewers of my discontent. Where was there any of the Naiads, The Dryads, or the Hamadryades? Which of the British shires can yield again, A mistress of the Spring, or Wood, or Plain? Whose eye enjoyed more sweet contents than mine, Till I received my overthrow by thine? Where's she did more delight in Springs and Rils? Where's she that walked more Groves, or Downs, or Hills? Or could by such fair artless prospects, more Add by conceit, to her contentments store Than I; whilst thou wert true, and with thy Gracens Didst give a pleasing presence to those places? But now What is; What was hath overthrown, My Rose-deckt allies, now with Rue are strowne; And from those flowers that honeyed use to be, I suck nought now but juice to poison me. For e'en as she, whose gentle spirit can rise To apprehend Loves noble mysteries, Spying a precious jewel richly set, Shine in some corner of her Cabinet, Taketh delight at first to gaze upon The pretty lustre of the sparkling stone, And pleased in mind, by that doth seem to see How virtue shines through base obscurity; But prying nearer, seeing it doth prove Some relic of her dear deceased Love, Which to her sad remembrance doth lay open, What she most sought, and sees most far from hope: Fainting almost beneath her Passions weight, And quite forgetful of her first conceit: Looking upon't again, from thence she borrows Sad melancholy thoughts to feed her sorrows. So I beholding Nature's curious bowers, Seeled, strowed, and trimmed up with leaves, herbs, and flowers. Walk pleased on a while, and do devise How on each object I may moralise, But ere I place on many steps, I see There stands a Hawthorne that was trimmed by thee: Here thou didst once slip off the virgin sprays, To crown me with a wreath of living Bays. On such a Bank, I see how thou didst lie, When viewing of a shady Mulberry, The hard mishap thou didst to me discuss Of loving Thysbe, and young Pyramus: And oh (think I) how pleasing was it then, Or would be yet, might he return again. But if some neighbouring Row do draw me to Those Arbours, where the shadows seem to woo The weary lovesick Passenger, to sit And view the beauty's Nature strews on it: How fair (think I) would this sweet place appear, If he I love, were sporting with me here! Nay, every several object that I see, Doth severally (me thinks) remember thee. But the delight I used from it to gather, I now exchange for cares, and seek them rather. But those whose dull and gross affections can Extend but only to desire a Man, Cannot the depth of these rare Passions know: For their imaginations flag too low; And cause their base Conceits do apprehend Nothing but that whereto the flesh doth tend; In loves embraces they near reach unto More of content than the brute Creatures do. Neither can any judge of this, but such Whose braver minds for braver thoughts do touch. And having spirits of a nobler frame, Feel the true heat of loves unquenched flame. They may conceive aright what smarting sting To their Remembrances the place will bring, Where they did once enjoy, and then do miss, What to their soul's most dear and precious is. With me 'tis so; for those walks that once seemed Pleasing, when I of thee was more esteemed, To me appear most desolate and lonely, And are the places now of torment only. Where I the highest of contents did borrow, There am I paid it home with treble sorrow. Unto one place I do remember well, We walked the eu'ning to hear Phylomell: And that seems now to want the light it had: The shadow of the Grou's more dull and sad▪ As if it were a place but fit for Fowls That screech ill▪ luck; as melancholy Owls, Or fatal Ravens, that seld ' boding good, Croak their black Auguries from some dark wood. Then if from thence I half despairing go, Another place begins another woe: For thus unto my thought it seems to say, Hither thou saw'st him riding once that way; Thither to meet him thou didst nimbly hast thee, Yond he alighted, and e'en there embraced thee: Which whilst I sighing wish to do again, Another object brings another pain; For passing by that Green, which (could it speak) Would tell it saw us run at Barleybreak; There I beheld, what on a thin rined tree Thou hadst engraven for the love of me; When we two, all alone, in heat of day, With chaste embraces drove swift hours away: Then I remember too, unto my smart, How loath we were, when time compelled, to part; How cunningly thy Passions thou couldst feign, In taking leave, and coming back again: So oft, until (as seeming to forget We were departing) down again we set; And freshly in that sweet discourse went on, Which now I almost faint to think upon. Viewing again those other Walks, and Groves That have been witnesses of our chaste loves; When I behold those Trees whose tender skin Hath that cut out, which still cuts me within. Or come by chance, unto that pretty Rill Where thou wouldst sit, & teach the neighbouring Hill To answer in an Echo unto those Rare Problems which thou often didst propose. When I come there (think I) if these could take That use of words and speech which we partake, They might unfold a thousand pleasures then Which I shall never live to taste again: And thereupon Remembrance doth so rack My thoughts, with representing what I lack, That in my mind those Clerks do argue well, Which hold Privation the great'st plague of hell. For there's no torment gripes me half so bad, As the Remembrance of those joys I had. Oh hast thou quite forgot, when sitting by The banks of Thame, beholding how the Fry Played on the silver waves? There where I first Granted to make my Fortune thus accursed; There where thy tootoo earnest suit compelled My oversoon believing heart to yield One favour first, which then another drew To get another, till (alas) I rue That day and hour, thinking I near should need (As now) to grieve for doing such a deed. So freely I my courtesies bestowed That whose I was unwarily I showed, And to my heart such passage made for thee, Thou canst not to this day removed be, And what breast could resist it, having seen How true thy love had in appearance been. For I shall never forget, when thou hadst there Laid open every discontent and care, Wherewith thou deeply seemd'st to me oppressed, When thou (as much as any could protest) Hadst vowed and sworn, and yet perceiu'dst no sign Of pity-moving in this breast of mine: Well Love (saidst thou) since neither sigh nor vow, Nor any service may prevail me now: Since neither the recital of my smart, Nor those strong Passions that assail my heart, Nor any thing may move thee to belief Of these my sufferings, or to grant relief: Since there's no comfort, nor desert, that may Get me so much as Hope of what I pray; Sweet Love farewell, farewell fair beauties light, And every pleasing object of the sight: My poor despairing heart here biddeth you, And all Content, for evermore adieu. Then e'en as thou seemd'st ready to depart; Reaching that hand, which after gave my heart, (And thinking this sad Farewell did proceed, From a sound breast, but truly moved indeed) I stayed thy departing from me so, Whilst I stood mute with sorrow, thou for show. And the mean while as I beheld thy look, My eye th'impression of such Pity took, That, with the strength of Passion overcome, A deep fetch't sigh my heart came breathing from: Whereat thou (ever wisely using this To take advantage when it offered is) Renewdst thy suit to me, who did afford Consent, in silence first, and then in word. So that for yielding thou mayst thank thy wit: And yet when ever I remember it, Trust me, I muse, and often, wondering, think Through what craney, or what secret chink That Love unwares, so like a sly close Elf, Did to my heart insinuate itself. Gallants I had, before thou cam'st to woe, Could as much love, and as well court me too; And though they had not learned so the fashion, Of acting such well-counterfeited Passion; In wit, and person, they did equal thee, And worthier seemed, unless thou'lt faithful be. Yet still unmoved, unconquered I remained, No, not one thought of love was entertained: Nor could they brag of the least favour to them, Save what mere courtesy enjoined to do them. Hard was my heart: But will't had harder been, And then, perhaps, I had not let thee in, Thou Tyrant, that art so imperious there, And only tak'st delight to Domineer. But held I out such strong, such oft assailing, And ever kept the honour of prevailing? Was this poor breast from loves allure free, Cruel to all, and gentle unto thee? Did I unlock that strong affections door, That never could be broken open before, Only to thee? and at thy intercession So freely give up all my heart's possession: That to myself I left not one poor vein, Nor power, nor will to put thee from't again? Did I do this, and all on thy bare vow, And wilt thou thus requite my kindness now? Oh that thou either hadst not learned to feign, Or I had power to cast thee off again! How is it that thou art become so rude, And over-blinded by Ingratitude? Swearest thou so deeply that thou wouldst persever, That I might thus be cast away for ever? Well, then 'tis true that lovers perjuries, Among some men, are thought no injuries: And that she, only, hath least cause of grief, Who of your words hath smalst, or, no belief. Had I the wooer been, or fond won, This had been more though, than thou couldst have done; But neither being so, what Reason is On thy side, that should make thee offer this? I know, had I been false, or my faith failed, Thou wouldst at women's fickleness have railed: And if in me it had an error been, In thee shall the same fault be thought no sin? Rather I hold that which is bad in me, Will be a greater blemish unto thee; Because by Nature thou art made more strong, And therefore abler to endure a wrong. But 'tis our Fortune, you'll have all the power, Only the Care, and Burden must be our. Nor can you be content a wrong to do, Unless you lay the blame upon us too. Oh that there were some gentleminded Poet That knew my heart, as well as now I know it; And would endear me to his love so much, To give the world (though but) a slender rouch Of that sad Passion which now clogs my heart, And show my truth, and thee how false thou art: That all might know, what is believed by no man, there's fickleness in men, and faith in woman. Thou sawst I first let Pity in, then liking, And lastly that which was thy only seeking; And when I might have scorned that love of thine, (As now ungently thou despisest mine,) Among the inmost Angles of my breast: To lodge it by my heart I thought it best: Which thou hast stolen too like a thankless Mate, And left me nothing but a black selfe-hate. What canst thou say for this, to stand contending? What colour hast thou left for thy offending? That wit, perhaps, hath some excuse in store, Or an evasion to escape a sore. But well I know, if thou excuse this treason, It must be by some greater thing than reason. Are any of those Virtues yet defaced, On which thy first affection seemed placed? Hath any secret foe my true faith wronged, To rob the bliss that to my heart belonged? What then? shall I condemned be unheard, Before thou knowest how I may be cleared? Thou art acquainted with the times condition, knowst it is full of envy, and suspicion, So that the war'est in thought, word, and action, Shall be most injured by foul-mouthed detraction: And therefore thou, methinks, shouldst wisely pause Before thou credit rumours without cause. But I have gotten such a confidence In thy opinion, of my innocence: It is not that, I know, withholds thee now: Sweet, tell me then; is it some sacred vow? Hast thou resolved, not to join thy hand With any one in Hymen's holy band? Thou shouldst have done it then, when thou wert free, Before thou hadst bequeathed thyself to me. What vow dost deem more pleasing unto Heaven, Than what is by unfeigned lovers given? If any be, yet sure it frowneth at Those that are made for contradicting that. But if thou wouldst live chastely all thy life, That thou mayst do, though we be man and wife: Or if thou longest a Virgin-death to die, Why, if it be thy pleasure, so do I. Make me but thine, and I'll (contented) be A Virgin still, yet live and lie with thee. Then let not thy inventing brain assay To mock, and still delude me every way; But call to mind, how thou hast deeply sworn Nor to neglect, nor leave me thus forlorn. And if thou wilt not be to me as when We first did love, do but come see me then; Vouchsafe that I may sometime with thee walk, Or sit and look on thee, or hear thee talk; And I, that most content once aimed at, Will think there is a world of bliss in that. Dost thou suppose that my Desires denies With thy affections well to sympathise? Or such perverseness hast thou found in me, May make our Nature's disagreeing be? Thou knowst when thou didst wake I could not sleep And if thou wert but sad, that I should weep. Yet even when the tears my cheek did stain If thou didst smile, why I could smile again: I never did contrary thee in aught: Nay, thou canst tell, I oft have spoke thy thought. Waking; the self-same course with thee I run, And sleeping, oftentimes our dreams were one. The Dial needle, though it sense doth want, Still bends to the beloved Adamant, Lift the one up, the other upward tends; If this fall down, that presently descends: Turn but about the stone, the steel turns too; Then strait returns, if but the other do; And if it stay, with trembling keeps one place, As if it panting longed for an embrace. So was't with me: for if thou merry were't, That mirth of thine, moved joy within my heart: I sighed too, when thou didst sigh, or frown; When thou were't sick, thou hast perceived me swoon; And being sad, have oft, with forced delight, Strived to give thee content, beyond my might. When thou wouldst talk, then have I talked with thee, And silent been, when thou wouldst silent be. If thou abroad didst go, with joy I went; If home thou lov'dst, at home was my content: Yea, what did to my Nature disagree, I could make pleasing, cause it pleased thee. But if't be either my weak Sex, or youth, Makes thee misdoubt my undistained truth, Know this; as none till that unhappy hour, When I was first made thine, had ever power To move my heart, by vows, or tears expense, No more, I swear, could any Creature since. No looks but thine, though aimed with Passions Art, Could pierce so deep to penetrate my heart. No name but thine, was welcome to my ear, No word did I so soon, so gladly hear: Nor never could my eyes behold or see, What I was since delighted in, but thee. And sure thou wouldst believe it to he so, If I could tell, or words might make thee know, How many a weary night my tumbled bed Hath known me sleepless: what salt tears I've shed, What scalding sighs, the marks of souls oppressed, Have hourly breathed from my careful breast: Nor wouldst thou deem those waking sorrows feigned If thou mightst see how sleeping I am pained. For if sometimes I chance to take a slumber, Unwelcome dreams my broken rest doth cumber, Which dreaming makes me start, starting with fears Wakes; and so waking I renew my cares: Until my eyes ore-tired with watch and weeping, Drowned in their own floods, fall again to sleeping. Oh! that thou couldst but think, when last we parted, How much I, grieving for thy absence, smarted. My very soul fell sick, my heart to aching, As if they had their last Farewells been taking; Or feared by some secret Divination, This thy revolt, and causeless alteration. Didst thou not feel how loath that hand of mine, Was to let go the hold it had of thine? And with what heavy, what unwilling look, I leave of thee, and then of comfort took? I know thou didst; and though now thus thou do, I am deceived, but than it grieved thee too. Then, if I so with loves fell passion vexed For thy departure only was perplexed, When I had left to strengthen me some trust, And hope, that thou wouldst ne'er have proved unjust: What was my torture then and hard endurance, When of thy falsehood I received assurance. Alas, my tongue, a while, with grief was dumb, And a cold shuddering did my joints benumb, Amazement seized my thought, and so prevailed, I found me ill, but knew not what I ailed; Nor can I yet tell, since my suffering then Was more than could be shown by Poet's pen; Or well conceived by any other heart Then that which in such care hath borne a part. Oh me; how loath was I to have believed That to be true, for which so much I grieved? How gladly would I have persuaded been There had been no such matter, no such sin. I would have had my heart think that (I knew To be the very truth) not to be true. Why may not this, thought I, some vision be, Some sleeping dream, or waking fantasy Begotten by my over-blinded folly, Or else engendered through my Melancholy? But finding it so real (thought I) then Must I be cast from all my hopes again? What are become of all those fading blisses, Which late my hope had, and now so much misses? Where is that future fickle happiness Which I so long expected to possess? And thought I too; where are his dying Passions, His honeyed words, his bitter lamentations? To what end were his Sonnets, Epigrams, His pretty Posies, witty Anagrams? I could not think, all that might have been feigned, Nor any faith, I thought so firm, been stained: Nay, I do sure and confidently know: It is not possible it should be so: If that rare Art and Passion was thine own, Which in my presence thou hast often shown. But since thy change, my much presaging heart Is half afraid, thou some impostor were't: Or that thou didst but (frantic addressed) Act that which flowed from some more gentle breast. Thy puffed invention, with worse matter swollen, Those thy conceits from better wits hath stolen: Or else I know it could not be, that thou Shouldst be so over-cold as thou art now; Since those, who have that feelingly their own, Ever possess more worth concealed, then known. And if Love ever any Mortals touch, To make a brave impression, 'tis in such, Who sworn loves Chaplains, will not violate That, whereunto themselves they consecreate. But oh you noble brood, on whom the world The slighted burden of neglect hath hurled, (Because your thoughts for higher objects borne, Their groveling humours and affections scorn) You whom the Gods, to hear your strains, will follow, Whilst you do court the sisters of Apollo. You whom there's none that's worthy, can neglect, Or any that unworthy is, affect: Do not let those that seek to do you shame, Bewitch us with those songs they cannot frame: The noblest of our Sex, and fairest too, Do ever love and honour such as you. Then wrong us not so much to give your Passion To those that have it but in imitation: And in their dull breasts never feel the power Of such deep thoughts as sweetly move in your. As well as you, they us thereby abuse, For (many times) when we our Lovers choose, Where we think Nature that rich jowell sets Which shines in you, we light on counterfeits. But see, see whither discontentment bears me, And to what uncouth strains my Passion rears me: Yet pardon me, I here again repent, If I have erred through that discontent. Be what thou wilt, be counterfeit or right, Be constant, serious, or be vain, or light, My love remains inviolate the same, Thou canst be nothing that can quench this flame, But it will burn as long as thou hast breath To keep it kindled (if not after death) ne'er was there one more true, than I to thee And though my faith must now despised be, Unprized, unvalued at the lowest rate; Yet this I'll tell thee, 'tis not all thy state, Nor all that better-seeming worth of thine, Can buy thee such another Love as mine: Liking it may, but oh there's as much odds, Twixt love and that, as between men and Gods: And 'tis a purchase not procured with treasure, As some fools think, nor to be gained at pleasure. For were it so, and any could assure it, What would not some men part with, to procure it? But though thou weight not, as thou oughtest to do, Thou know'st I love, and once didst love me too. Then where's the cause of this dislike in thee? Survey thyself, I hope there's none in me. Yet look on her from whom thou art estranged? See; is my person, or my beauty changed? Once thou didst praise it, prithee view't again, And mark if't be not still the same 'twas then: No false vermilion▪ die my cheek distaines, 'tis the poor blood dispersed through pores & veins; Which thou hast oft seen through my forehead flushing, To show no dawby colour hid my blushing: Nor never shall: Virtue, I hope, will save me, Contented with that beauty Nature gave me: Or if't seem less, for that griefs ve●se hath hid it, Thou threw'st it on me, 'twas not I that did it, And canst again restore, what may repair All that's decayed, and make me far more fair: Which if thou do, I'll be more wary than To keep't for thee unblemished, what I can; And cause at best 'twill want much of perfection, The rest shall be supplied with true affection. But I do fear, it is some others riches, Whose more abundance that thy mind bewitches, So that base object, that too general aim, Makes thee my lesser Fortune to disclaim. Fie, canst thou so degenerate in spirit, As to prefer the means before the merit? Although I cannot say it is in me, Such worth sometimes with poverty may be To equalize the match she takes upon her; though th' other vaunt of Birth, Wealth, Beauty, Honour: And many a one that did for greatness wed, Would gladly change it for a meaner bed. Yet are my Fortunes known indifferent, Not basely mean, but such as may content: And though I yield the better to be thine, I may be bold to say thus much, for mine; That if thou couldst of them and me esteem, Neither thy state, nor birth, would misbeseeme: Or if it did; how can I helped (alas!) Thou, not alone, before knewest what it was. But I (although not fearing so to speed) Did also disinableed more than need, And yet thou wouldst, and wooing didst persever, As if thou hadst intended Love for ever: Yea, thy account of wealth thou mad'st so small, Thou hadst not any question of't at all; But hating much that peasant-like condition, Didst seem displeased I held it in suspicion, Whereby I think, if nothing else do thwart us, It cannot be the want of that will part us. Yea, I do rather doubt indeed, that this The needless fear of friends displeasure is; That is the bar that stops out my delight, And all my hope and joy confoundeth quite. But bears there any in thy heart such sway To shut me thence, and wipe thy love away? Can there be any friend that hath the power, To disunite hearts so conjoined as our? ere I would have so done by thee; I'd rather Have parted with one dearer than my father. For though the will of our Creator binds Each child to learn and know his parents minds, Yet sure I am, so just a Deity. Commandeth nothing against Piety. Nor doth that band of duty give them leave, To violate their faith, or to deceive. And though that Parents have authority, To rule their children in minority; Yet they are never granted such power on them, That will allow to tyrannize upon them, Or use them under their command so ill, To force them, without reason, to their will. For who hath read in all the sacred writ, Of any one compelled to marriage (yet?) Or father so unkind (thereto required) Denied his Child the match that he desired, So that be found the laws did not forbid it? I think those gentler ages no men did it. In those days therefore for them to have been Contracted without licence, had been sin; Since there was more good Nature among men, And every one more truly loving then. But now (although we stand obliged still To labour for their liking, and good will) There is no duty whereby they may tie us From aught which without reason they deny us: For I do think, it is not only meant, Children should ask, but Parents should consent: And that they err, their duty as much breaking, For not consenting, as we not for speaking. " It is no marvel many matches be " Concluded now without their privity; " Since they, through greedy Avarice misled, " Their interest in that have forfeited. For these respectless of all care, do marry Hot youthful May to cold old january. Those for some greedy end do basely tie The sweetest fair to foul deformity. Forcing a love from where 'twas placed late, To reingraffe it where it turns to hate. It seems no cause of hindrance in their eyes, Though manners nor affections sympathise. And two Religions by their rules of state, They may in one made body tolerate, As if they did desire that double stem, Should fruitful bear but Nauters like to them. Alas, how many numbers of both kinds By that have ever discontented minds! And live (though seeming unto others well) In the next torments unto those of hell. How many desperate grown by this their sin, Have both undone themselves and all their kin? Many a one we see it makes to fall With the too-late repenting Prodigal. Thousands, though else by nature gentler given, To act the horridst murders oft are driven. And (which is worse) there's many a careless elf, (Unless heaven pity) kills and damns himself. Oh what hard heart, or what unpitying eyes, Could hold from tears to see those Tragedies, Parents by their neglect in this, have hurled Upon the stage of this respectless world? 'tis not one Man, one Family, one Kin, No nor one Country that hath ruined been By such their Folly, which the cause hath proved, That foreign oft, and civil wars were moved By such beginnings many a City lies Now in the dust, whose Turrets braved the skies: And divers monarch by such fortunes crossed, Have seen their Kingdoms fired, and spoiled and lost. Yet all this while, thou seest, I mention not The ruin, shame, and chastity hath got; For 'tis a task too infinite to tell How many thousands that would have done well, Do by the means of this, suffer desires To kindle in their hearts unlawful fires: Nay, some in whose cold breast ne'er flame had been Have only for mere vengeance fallen to sin. Myself have seen, and my heart bled to see't, A witless Clown enjoy a match unmeet. She was a Lass that had a look to move The heart of cold Diogenes to love: Her eye was such, whose every glance did know To kindle flames upon the hills of snow; And by her powerful peircing could imprint, Or sparkle fire into a heart of flint: And yet, unless I much deceived be, In very thought did hate immodesty: And (had sh'enioyd the man she could have loved) Might, to this day, have lived unreproved: But being forced, perforce, by seeming friends, With her consent, she her contentment ends. In that compelled, herself to him she gave, Whose bed, she rather could have wished her grave; And since, I hear, what I much fear is true, That she hath bidden shame and fame adieu. Such are the causes now that Parents quite Are put beside much of their ancient right: There fear of this, makes children to withhold From giving them those dues which else they would: And these thou see'st are the too-fruitfull ills, Which daily spring from their unbridled wills. Yet they, forsooth, will have it understood, That all their study, is their children's good. A seeming Love shall cover all they do: When, if the matter were well looked into, Their careful reach is chiefly to fulfil Their own foul, greedy, and insatiate will: Who quite forgetting they were ever young, Would have the children dote with them on dung. Grant, betwixt two, there be true love, content, Birth not misseeming, wealth sufficient, Equality in years, an honest fame, In every side the person without blame, And they obedient too: What can you gather Of Love, or of Affection, in that father, That but a little to augment his treasure, (Perhaps, no more but only for his pleasure:) Shall force his child to one he doth abhor, From her he loves, and justly seeketh for; Compelling him, (for such misfortune grieved) To die with care, that might with joy have lived? This you may say is Love, and swear as well, There's pains in Heaven, and delights in Hell; Or that the devils fury and austerity, Proceeds out of his care of our prosperity. Would Parents (in this age) have us begin To take by their eyes, our affections in? Or do they think we bear them in our fist, That we may still remove them as they list? It is impossible it should be thus, For we are ruled by Love, not Love by us: And so our power so much ne'er reacheth to, To know where we shall love, until we do. And when it comes, hide it a while we may, But 'tis not in our strengths to driueed away. Either mine own eye should my chooser be, Or I would ne'er wear Hymen's Livery. For who is he so near my heart doth rest, To know what 'tis, that mine approveth best: I have myself beheld those men, whose frame, And outward personages had nought of blame, They had (what might their good proportion grace) The much more moving part, a comely face, With many of those compliments, which we, In common men, of the best breeding, see. They had discourse, and wit enough to carry Themselves in fashion, at an Ordinary; Gallant they were, loved company and sport, Wore favours, and had Mistresses in Court: And every way were such that now might seem Worthy of note, respect, and such esteem; Yet hath my eye more cause of liking seen, Where nought perhaps by some hath noted been: And I have there found more content, by far, Where some of these perfections wanting are; Yea so much, that their beauties were a blot To them (me thought) because he had them not. There some peculiar thing innated is, That bears an uncontrolled sway in this; And nothing but itself knows how to fit The mind with that which best shall suit with it. Then why should Parents thrust themselves into What they want warrant for, and power to do? How is it they are so forgetful grown, Of those conditions, that were once their own? Do they so dote amidst their wit's perfection, To think that age and youth hath like affection! (When they do see 'mong those of equal years, One hateth what another most endears.) Or do they think their wisdoms can invent A thing to give, that's greater than Content? No, neither shall they wrap us in such blindness, To make us think the spite they do, a kindness. For as I would advise no child to stray From the least duty that he ought to pay: So would I also have him wisely know, How much that duty is which he doth owe: That knowing what doth unto both belong, He may do them their right, himself no wrong. For if my Parents him I loath should choose, 'tis lawful, yea my duty to refuse: Else, how shall I lead so upright a life, As is enjoined to the Man and Wife? Since that we see some time there are repentings, e'en where there are the most, and best content. What, though that by our Parents first we live, Is not life, misery enough to give; Which at their births the children doth undo, Unless they add some other mischief to? 'Cause they gave being to this flesh of our, Must we be therefore slaves unto their power? We ne'er desired it, for how could we tell, Not being, but that not to be was well: Nor know they whom they profit by it, seeing Happy were some, if they had had no being. Indeed, had they produced us without sin, Had all our duty to have pleased them been: Of the next life, could they assure the state, And both beget us and regenerate; There were no reason than we should withstand To undergo their tyranou'st command: In hope that either for our hard endurance, We should, at last, have comfort in assurance: Or if in our endeavours we mis-sped, At least feel nothing when we should be dead. But what's the Reason for't that we shall be Enthralled so much unto Mortality? Our souls on will of any Men to tie Unto an everlasting misery. So far, perhaps too, from the good of either, We ruin them, ourselves, and all together. Children owe much, I must confess, 'tis true, And a great debt is to the Parents due: Yet if they have not so much power to crave But in their own defence the lives they gave: How much less then, should they become so cruel As to take from them the high prized jewel Of liberty in choice, whereon depends The main contentment that the heaven here lends; Worth life or wealth, nay far more worth then either, Or twenty thousand lives put all together. Then howsoever some, severer bent, May deem of my opinion, or intent, With that which follows thus conclude I do: (And I have Reason for't, and Conscience too) No Parent may his Childs just suit deny On his bare will, without a reason why: Nor he so used, be disobedient thought, If unapproved he take the match he sought. So than if that thy faith uncrazed be, Thy friends dislike shall be no stop to me: For if their will be not of force to do it, They shall have no cause else to drive them to it. Let them bring all forth that they can allege, We are both young, and of the fittest age, If thou dissembledst not, both love, and both To admit hindrance in our loves were loath. 'tis prejudicial unto none that lives, And Gods, and human Law our warrant gives. Nor are we much unequal in degree, Perhaps our Fortunes somewhat different be. But say that little means, which is, were not, The want of wealth may not dissolve this knot. For though some such preposterous courses wend, Prescribing to themselves no other end▪ marriage was not ordained t'enrich men by, Unless it were in their posterity. And he that doth for other causes wed, Never knows the true sweets of a marriage bed: Nor shall he by my will, for 'tis unfit He should have bliss that never aimed at it. Though that bewitching gold the Rabble blinds, And is the object of the Vulgar minds: Yet those me thinks that graced seem to be, With so much good as doth appear in thee, Should scorn, their better▪ taught desires to tie To that, which fools do get their honour by. I can like of the wealth I (must confess) Yet more I prise the man, though mony-Iesse. I am not of their humour yet, that can For Title, or Estate, affect a Man; Or of myself, one body deign to make With him I loath, for his possessions sake. Nor wish I ever to have that mind bred In me, that is in those; who, when they wed, Think it enough they do attain the grace Of some new honour, to far well, take place, Wear costly clothes, in others sights agree, Or happy in opinion seem to be. I weigh not this: for were I sure before Of Spencer's wealth, or our rich Suttons store; Had I therewith a man, whom Nature lent Person enough to give the eye content: If I no outward due, nor right did want, Which the best husbands in appearance grant▪ Nay, though alone we had no private jars, But merry lived from all domestic cares; Unless I thought his Nature so incline, That it might also sympathise with mine, (And yield such correspondence with my mind, Our souls might mutually contentment find, By adding unto these which went before, Some certain unexpressed pleasures more, Such as exceed the straight and curbed dimensions▪ Of common minds, and vulgar apprehensions) I would not care for such a match, but tarry In this estate I am, and never marry. Such were the sweets I hoped to have possessed, When Fortune should with thee have made me blest. My heart could hardly think of that content To apprehend it without ravishment. Each word of thine (methought) was to my ears More pleasing than that music, which the Spheres (They say) do make the Gods, when in their chime, Their motions Diapason with the time. In my conceit, the opening of thy eye, Seemed to give light to every object by, And shed a kind of life unto my show, In every thing that was within it view. More joy I've felt to have thee but in place, Then many do in the most close embrace Of their beloved'st friend, which well doth prove, Not to thy body only tends my love. But mounting a true height, grows so divine, It makes my soul to fall in love with thine. And sure now whatsoever thy body do, Thy soul loves mine, and oft they visit too. For late I dreamed they went I know not whither, Unless to Heaven, and there played together; And to this day I near could know or see, 'Twixt them or us the least Antipathy. Then what should make thee keep thy person hence, Or leave to love, or hold it in suspense? If to offend thee I unwares was driven, Is't such a fault as may not be forgiven? Or if by frowns of Fate I have been check, So that I seem not worth thy first respect, Shall I be therefore blamed and upbraided, With what could not be holpen, nor avoided? 'tis not my fault: yet cause my Fortunes do, Wilt thou be so unkind to wrong me too? Not unto Thine, but thee I set my heart, So nought can wipe my love out while thou art: Though thou wert poorer both of house and meat, Then he that knows not where to sleep or eat: Though thou wert sunk into obscurity, Become an abject in the world's proud eye, Though by perverseness of thy Fortune crossed, Thou wert deformed, or some limb hadst lost, That love which Admiration first begot, Pity would strengthen, that it failed not: Yea I should love thee still, and without blame, As long as thou couldst keep thy mind the same; Which is of Virtues so compact (I take it) No mortal change shall have the power to shake it. This may, and will (I know) seem strange to those That cannot the Abyss of love disclose, Nor must they think, whom but the outside moves, Ever to apprehend such noble Loves, Or more conjecture their unsounded measure, Then can we mortals of immortal pleasure. Then let not those dull unconceiving brains, Who shall hereafter come to read these strains, Suppose that no loves fire can be so great, Because it gives not their cold Clime such heat. Or think m'inuention could have reached here Unto such thoughts, unless such love there were. For than they shall but show their knowledge weak, And injure me, that feel of what I speak. But now my lines grow tedious, like my wrong, And as I thought that, thou thinkst this too long. Or some may deem, I thrust myself into More than beseemeth modesty to do. But of the difference I am not unwitting, Betwixt a peevish coins, and things unfitting: Nothing respect I, who pries over my doing: For here's no vain allurements, nor fond wooing, To train some wanton stranger to my lure; But with a thought that's honest, chaste, and pure, I make my cause unto thy conscience known, Suing for that which is by right my own. In which complaint, if thou do hap to find Any such word, as seems to be unkind: Mistake me not, it but from Passion sprung, And not from an intent to do thee wrong. Or if among these doubts my sad thoughts breed, Some (peradventure) may be more than need; They are to let thee know, might we dispute, There's no objections but I could refute; And spite of Envy such defences make, Thou shouldst embrace that love thou dost forsake. Then do not (oh forgetful man) now deem, That 'tis aught else than I have made it seem. Or that I am unto this Passion moved, Because I cannot elsewhere be beloved: Or that it is thy state, whose greatness known, Makes me become a suitor for my own: Suppose not so; for know this day there be Some that woo hard for what I offer thee: And I have ever yet contented been With that estate I first was placed in. Banish those thoughts, and turn thee to my heart, Come once again, and be what once thou wert. Revive me by those wont joys repairing, That am nigh dead with sorrows and despairing. So shall the memory of this annoy, But add more sweetness to my future joy; Yea make me think thou meantst not to deny me, But only wert estranged thus, to try me. And lastly, for that loves sake thou once bar'st me, By that right hand thou gav'st, hat oath thou swar'st me, By all the Passions, and (if any be) For her dear sake that makes thee injure me; I here conjure thee; no; entreat and sue, That if these lines do overreach thy view, Thou wouldst afford me so much favour for them▪ As to accept, or at least not abhor them. So though thou wholly cloak not thy disdain, I shall have somewhat the less cause to plain: Or if thou needs must scoff at this, or me, Do't by thyself, that none may witness be. Not that I fear 'twill bring me any blame, Only I'm loath the world should know my shame. For all that shall this plaint with reason view, Will judge me faithful, and thee most untrue. But if Oblivion, that thy love bereft, Hath not so much good nature in thee left, But that thou must, as most of you men do, When you have conquered, tyrannize it too: Know this before, that it is praiseto no man, To wrong so frail a Creature as a woman, And to insult o'er one, so much made thine, Will more be thy disparagement than mine. But oh (I pray that it portend no harm,) A cheering heat my chilled senses warms: Just now I flashing feel into my breast, A sudden comfort, not to be expressed; Which to my thinking, doth again begin To warm my heart, to let some hope come in; It tells me, 'tis impossible that thou Shouldst live not to be mine; It whispers how My former fears and doubts have been in vain, And that thou meanest yet to return again. It says thy absence from some cause did grow, Which, or I should not, or I could not know. It tells me now, that all those proofs, whereby I seemed assured of thy disloyalty, May be but treacherous plots of some base foes, That in thy absence sought our overthrows. Which if it prove; as yet me thinks it may, Oh! what a burden shall I cast away? What cares shall I lay by? and to what height Tower in my new ascension to delight? Sure ere the full of it I come to try, I shall e'en surfeit in my joy, and die. But such a loss might well be called a thriving, Since more is got by dying so, then living. Come kill me then, my dear, if thou think fit▪ With that which never killed woman yet: Or write to me before, so shalt thou give Content more moderate that I may live: And when I see my staff of trust unbroken, I will unspeake again what is misspoken. What I have written in dispraise of Men, I will recant, and praise as much again; In recompense I'll add unto their Stories, Encomiastic lines to imp their glories. And for those wrongs my love to thee hath done▪ Both I and it unto thy Pity run: In whom, if the least guilt thou find to be, For ever let thy arms imprison me. Mean while I'll try if misery will spare Me so much respite, to take truce with care. And patiently await the doubtful doom, Which I expect from thee should shortly come; Much longing that I one way may be sped, And not still linger 'twixt alive and dead. For I can neither live yet as I should, Because I least enjoy of that I would; Nor quiet dye, because (indeed) I first Would see some better days, or know the worst. Then hasten Dear, if to my end it be, It shall be welcome, cause it comes from thee. If to renew my Comfort ought be sent, Let me not lose a minute of Content. The precious Time is short, and will away; Let us enjoy each other while we may. Cares thrive, Age creepeth on, Men are but shades, joys lessen, Youth decays, and Beauty fades; New turns come on, the old returneth never If we let our go past, 'tis past for ever. Inter EQVITAND: PALINOD. MY Genius say what Thoughts these paintngs move? Thy Thoughts of love. What Flames are these that set my heart on fire? Flames of Desire. What are the Means that these two underprop? Thy earnest Hope. Then yet I'm happy in my sweet Friend's choice. For they in depth of Passion may rejoice, Whose Thoughts and Flames and Means have such blessed scope. They may at once both Love, Desire, and Hope. But tell what Fruit at last my Love shall gain? Hidden Disdain. What will that Hope prove which yet Faith keeps fair? Hopeless Despair. What End will run my Passions out of breath? Untimely Death. Oh me! that Passion joined with Faith and love. Should with my Fortunes so ungracious prove, That she'll no fruit, nor Hope, nor End bequeath, But cruelest Disdain, Despair, and Death. Then what new Study shall I now apply? Study to Dye. How might I end my Care, and die content? Care to Repent. And what good thoughts may make my end more holy? Think on thy Folly. Well, so I will, and since my Fate may give Nothing but discontents whilst here I live. My Studies, Cares, and Thoughts I'll all apply To weigh my Folly well, Repent, and Dye. Sonnets. HEnce away thou Siren leave me, Pish unclasp these wanton arms, Sugared words can near deceive me, Though thou prove a thousand charms. Fie, fie, forbear no common snare Can ever my affection chain, Thy sugared baits of Love deceits Are all bestowed on me in vain. I have else where vowed a duty, Turn away thy tempting eye; Show not me thy painted beauty, These impostures I defy: My spirit loathes where gaudy clothes, And feigned oaths, may love obtain, I love her so whose looks swears no, That all thy labour will be vain. I am no slave to such as you be, Nor shall that soft snowy Breast, Rolling eye, nor lip of ruby Ever rob me of my rest. Go, go, display thy beauty's ray To some more son enamoured Swain, Thy forced wiles of sighs and smiles Are all bestowed on me in vain. Can he prise the tainted posies That on others breast are worn, Which may pluck the Virgin roses From the never▪ touched thorn: I can go rest on her sweet breast That is the pride of Cinthia's train, Then stay thy tongue, thy Mermaids song Is, all bestowed on me in vain. He is a fool that basely dallies, Where each Peasant mates with him; Shall I haunt the thronged valleys, When there's noble Hills to climb: No, no, though Clowns are scared with frowns, I know the best can but disdain, Then those I'll prove, so will thy love Be all bestowed on me in vain. Yet I would not deign embraces With the fairest Queens that be, If another shared those graces, Which they had bestowed on me. I'll grant that one my love where none Shall come to rob me of my gain, The fickle heart makes tears and art, And all bestowed on me in vain. I do scorn to vow a duty Where each lustful Lad may woo, Give me her whose sunlike beauty Buzzards dare not sore unto: She it is affords that bliss, For which I would refuse no pain, But such as you fond fools adieu, You seek to captive me in vain. She that's proud in the beginning, And disdains each looker on, Is a Harpy in the winning, But a Turtle being won: What ere betide she'll near divide The favour she to one doth deign, But foundlings loves uncertain proves, All all that trust in them are vain. There foreknow when I enjoy one, And for love employ my breath, She ay court shall be a coy one, Though I purchased with my death. The pleasures there few aim at dare, But if perhaps a Lover plain, She is not won nor I undone, By placing of my love in vain. Leave me then thou Siren leave me, Take away these charmed arms, Craft thou seest can near deceive me, I am proof, against women's charms. Oft fools assay to lead astray The heart that constant must remain, But I the while do sit and smile, To see them spend their love in vain. SHall I wasting in despair Die because a woman's fair; Or my cheeks make pale with care, 'Cause another's rosy are. Be she fairer than the day, Or the flowery meeds of May, If she be not so to me, What care I how fair she be. Shall my foolish heart be pined, 'Cause I see a woman's ●●nde, Or a well disposed nature, joined in a comely feature. Be she kind or meeker than Turtle Dove or Pelican, If she be not so to me, What care I how kind she be. Shall a woman's virtues make Me to perish for her sake; Or her merits value known Make me quite forget my own. Be she with that goodness blest That may merit name of best, If she seem not so to me, What care I how good she be. 'Cause her fortunes seems too high, Should I play the fool and die; He that bears a noble mind, If not outward help he find, Think what with them he would do, That without them dares to woo. And unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be. Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will near the more despair; If she love me then believe I will die ere she shall grieve If she slight me when I woo, I can slight and bid her go, If she be not fit for me, What care I how others be. FINIS. LONDON, Printed by E. G. for Thomas Walkley, and are to be sold at the sign of the Eagle & Child in Britain's Burse. 1619.