Melancholic humours, IN VERSES OF diverse natures, set down by Nich: Breton, Gent.  
LONDON  
¶ Printed by RICHARD BRADOCKE. 1600.   

TO THE LOVER OF good studies, and favourer of good actions, Master Thomas Blount, heavens blessing, and earth's happiness.  
SIR, my knowledge of your good judgement in the diversity of humours, and your disposition to that best melancholy, that can not run mad with trifles, hath made me (upon the gathering together of certain odd pieces of Poetry) to offer my labours te your patience, and my love to your service. They are all waters of one spring: but they run through many kinds of earth; whereof they give a kind of tang in their taste. Such as they be, I leave them to the kindness of your acceptation, and myself to your like commandment. And so (loath to use ceremonious compliments) in the affection of a poor friend, & in humble thankfulness, for your many undeserved favours, I rest  
Yours, very much to command, N. B.   

¶ To the Reader.  
PASQVILL, having been long in his dumps, in somewhat better than a brown study, hath brought forth the fruits of a few melancholic humours: which chiefly he commendeth to spirits of his own nature, full of melancholy, and as near Bedlam, as Mooregate; a figure in the fields to be easily deciphered. To be short, and to grow towards an end, ere I have well begun, I will tell you; the gentleman's brains were much troubled, as you may see by his perplexities: but with studying how to make one line level with another, in more rhyme than perhaps some will think reason, with much ado about nothing, he hath made a piece of work as little worth. He that can give him less● commendation, let him use his art. For mine own part, I have taken pain to write his Will, which he hath sent to the world to like as it list. According to whose will, I leave it; entreating no man to wrest his will to any thing, further than may stand with his pleasure; but to speak indifferently of all things, as he finds cause: and so I rest  
Your friend, N. B.   

In Authorem.  

THOU, that wouldst find the habit of true passion,  
And see a mind attired in perfect strains;  
Not wearing moods, as gallants do a fashion,  
In these pied times, only to show their brains,   

Look here on Bretons work, the master print:  
Where, such perfections to the life do rise.  
If they seem wry, to such as look asquint,  
The fault's not in the object, but their eyes.   

For, as one coming with a lateral view,  
Unto a cunning piece wrought perspective,  
Wants faculty to make a censure true:  
So with this Author's Readers will it thrive:   

Which being eyed directly, I divine,  
His proof their praise, will meet, as in this line.   
BEN: JOHNSON.   

See, and say nothing.  

OH my thoughts, keep in your words,  
Lest their passage do repent ye:  
Knowing, Fortune still affords  
Nothing, but may discontent ye.   

If your Saint be like the Sun,  
Sat not ye in Phoebus' chair;  
Lest, when once the horses run,  
Ye be Dedalus his heir.   

If your labours well deserve,  
Let your silence only grace them:  
And, in patience, hope preserve,  
That no fortune can deface them.   

If your friend do grow unkind,  
Grieve, but do not seem to show it.  
For, a patient heart shall find  
Comfort, when the soul shall know it.   

If your trust be all betrayed,  
Try, but trust no more at all:  
But in soul be not dismayed,  
Whatsoever do befall.   

In yourselves, yourselves enclose:  
Keep your secrecies unseen:  
Lest, when ye yourselves disclose,  
Ye had better never been.   

And what ever be your state,  
Do not languish overlong:  
Lest you find it all too late,  
Sorrow be a deadly song.   

And be comforted in this,  
If your passions be concealed,  
Cross, or comfort, bale, or bliss,  
'tis the best, is not revealed.   

So, my dearest thoughts, adieu,  
Hark whereto my soul doth call ye:  
Be but secret, wise, and true,  
Fear no evil can befall ye.   

¶ What is hell?  

WHAT is the place, that some do paint for hell?  
A lake of horror for the life of man.  
Is it not, then, the death wherein I dwell,  
That knows no joy, since first my life began?   

What are the devils? Spirits of tormenting.  
What else are they, that vex me in each vain?  
With wretched thoughts, my woeful spirit tempting,  
Or else perplex me in an after-paine.   

What is the fire? but, an effect of sin,  
That keeps my heart in an unkindly heat.  
How long shall I this life continue in?  
Till true repentance mercy do entreat,   

And 〈◊〉 even at the latest breath;  
Save me, sweet Lord, yet from the second death.    

¶ Malipiero content.  

IF I desired unto the world to live,  
Or sought in soul to serve the golden God:  
If I did homage to an idol give,  
Or, with the wicked, wished to have abode,   

Then well might justice lay her sword upon me,  
In due correction of my crooked heart:  
But, shall I live, in soul thus woe begon me,  
That seek in faith to serve the better part?   

Ah wretched soul, why dost thou murmur so?  
It is thy cross, and thou art borne to bear it:  
Through hellish griefs, thy heart to heaven must go,  
For patience crown, if thou wilt live to wear it.   

Then rest with this (since faith is virtues friend)  
Death ends distress, heaven makes a happy end.    

¶ A dole full passion.  

OH tired heart, too full of sorrows,  
In night-like days, despairing morrows,  
How canst thou think, so deeply grieved,  
To hope to live to be relieved   

Good fortune hath all grace 〈◊〉 〈◊〉,  
And cruel care hath too much torn thee:  
Unfaithful friends do all deceive thee,  
Acquaintance all unkindly leave thee.   

Beauty out of her book doth blot thee,  
And love hath utterly forgot thee,  
Patience doth but to passion move thee,  
While only honour lives to love thee.   

Thine enemies all ill devise thee,  
Thy friends but little good advise thee:  
And they, who most do duty owe thee,  
Do seem as though they do not know thee.   

Thus pity weeps to look upon thee,  
To see how thou art woe begon thee:  
And while these passions seek to spill thee,  
Death but attends the hour to kill thee.   

And since no thought is coming to thee,  
That any way may comfort do thee,  
Dispose thy thoughts, as best may please thee;  
That Heaven, of all thy Hell, may ease thee.    

¶ A Testament upon the passion.  

TO care, that crucifies my heart,  
My sighs, and sobs, I do bequeath,  
And to my sorrows deepest smart,  
The latest gasp that I do breath.   

To Fortune I bequeath my folly,  
To give to such as seek her grace:  
To faithless friends, that fortune wholly,  
That brought me in this heavy case.   

To beauty, I bequeath mine age:  
To love, the hate of wit, and sense:  
To patience, but the cure of rage:  
To honour, virtues patience.   

Mine enemies I do forgive:  
And, to my friends, I give my love:  
And wish, ungrateful hearts may live,  
But like ingratitude to prove.   

To pity, I bequeath my tears,  
To fill her eyes when they be dry:  
To faith, the fearless thoughts of fears,  
To give to life, to let me die.   

My care, I do bequeath to death,  
To cut the threads, that thoughts do spin,  
And, at my latest gasp of breath,  
To heaven my soul, to hell my sin.    

¶ A fantastic solemn humour.  

SOUND, good reason, sound my sorrows,  
Equal them with any living:  
Find the worst of all her giving,  
When she most her mischief borrows.   

Leave not patience all perplexed,  
Where no passions are appeased:  
But her torments never eased,  
Keep her spirit too much vexed.   

Tell, oh tell the truest story,  
That hath long time been described:  
Whereto justly is ascribed  
sorrows pride, and death his glory.   

love bred in discretion's blindness,  
Shadows, for the sun affecting  
Nothing, but nothing effecting,  
Shows the cross of Nature's kindness.   

Wit, bewitched with wanton beauty,  
Lost the rains of reasons bridle:  
And, in folly all too idle,  
Broke the bands of reasons duty.   

Time misspent in follies trifles  
(With repentance sorrow feeding)  
In the rules of reasons reeding,  
Finds them nothing else but nifles.   

Care, yet, seeking to recover  
Indiscretions heavy losses,  
Found in casting up my crosses,  
Sorrow only left the lover.    

¶ A brief of sorrow.  

MUSE of sadness, near death's fashion,  
Too near madness, write my passion.  
Pains possess me, sorrows spill me,  
Cares distress me, all would kill me.  
Hopes have failed me, Fortune foiled me,  
Fears have quailed me, all have spoiled me.  
Woes have worn me, sighs have soaked me,  
Thoughts have torn me, all have broke me.  
Beauty struck me, love hath catched me,  
Death hath took me, all dispatched me.    

¶ A solemn saucy.  

sorrow in my heart breedeth  
A Cockatrices nest:  
Where every young bird feedeth,  
Upon my heart's unrest.   

Where every peck they give me  
(Which every hour they do)  
Unto such pain they drive me,  
I know not what to do.   

Oh brood vnhapp'ly hatched,  
Of such a cursed kind,  
Where death and sorrow, matched,  
Live, but to kill the mind.   

Words torments are but trifles,  
That but conceits confound,  
And Nature's griefs, but nifles,  
Unto the spirits wound.   

They are but cares good morrows,  
That passions can declare:  
While my hearts inward sorrows,  
Are all without compare.   

Fortune, she seeks to swear me,  
To all may discontent me;  
Yet says she doth forbear me,  
She doth no more torment me.   

Beauty she doth retain me  
In scarce a favours tittle:  
And, though she do disdain me,  
She thinks my grief too little.   

Love falls into a laughing,  
At reasons little good,  
While sorrow with her quaffing,  
Is drunk with my heart blood.   

But, let her drink, and spare not,  
Until my heart be dry:  
And, let love laugh: I care not:  
My hope is, I shall die.   

And death shall only tell  
My froward fortune's fashion,  
That nearest unto hell,  
Was found the lovers passion.    

¶ A solemn sonnet.  

FORTUNE hath writ characters on my heart,  
As full of crosses, as the skin can hold:  
Which tell of torments, tearing every part,  
While death and sorrow do my fate unfold.   

Patience sits leaning like a pining soul,  
That had no heart to think of hopes relief;  
While fruitless cares discomfort do enroll,  
Within the ground of never ending grief.   

Thoughts fly about, as all in fear confounded:  
Reason grown mad, with too much mal content,  
Love passion-rent, to see his patience wounded,  
With dreadful terrors of despairs intent:   

While care concludes, in comforts overthrown,  
When death can speak, my passions shall be shown.    

¶ An extreme Passion.  

OUT of the depth of deadly grief, tormenting day and night,  
A wounded heart, and wretched soul, deprived of all delight,  
Where never thought of comfort came, that passion might appease,  
Or by the smallest spark of hope might give the smallest ease,  
Let me entreat that solemn Muse that serves but sorrows turn,  
In ceaseless sighs, and endless sobs, to help my soul to mourn.  
But, oh, what thought beyond all thought hath thought to think upon,  
Where patience finds her greatest power in passions overgon,  
That near the door of nature's death in doleful notes doth dwell,  
In horrors fits that will describe my too much figured hell.  
What want, what wrong, what care, what cross may crucify a heart,  
But, day and hour, I do endure in all, and every part?  
Want to sustain the bodies need, wrong to distract the mind:  
Where want makes wit and reason both to go against their kind.  
Care, to devise for comforts help: but so by fortune crossed,  
As kills the heart, to cast the eye, on nought but labour lost.  
Desire to live in spite of death; yet still, in living, dying:  
And so a greater death than death, by want of dying, trying.  
Oh hell of hells, if ever earth such horror can afford,  
Where such a world of helpless cares do lay the heart aboard. '  
No day, no night, no thought, no dream, but of that doleful nature,  
That may amaze, or sore affright a most afflicted creature.  
Friends turned to foes, foes use their force: and fortune, in her pride  
Shaks hands with fate, to make my soul the weight of sorrow bide.  
Care brings in sickness, sickness pain, & pain with patience passion,  
With biting in most bitter griefs, brings feature out of fashion:  
Where brawn fallen cheeks, heart scalding sighs, & dimmed eyes with tears,  
Do show, in life's Anatomy, what burden sorrow bears.  
Where all day long, in helpless cares, all hopeless of relief,  
I wish for night, I might not see the objects of my grief.  
And, when night comes, woes keep my wits in such a waking vain,  
That I could wish, though to my grief, that it were day again.  
Thus, days are nights: which nights are days: which days are like those nights,  
That to my passions sense present but only sorrows sights,  
Which to the eye but of the mind of misery appear,  
To fill the heart of forlorn hope too full of heavy cheer.  
Oh heart, how canst thou hold so long, and art not broke ere this?  
When all thy strings are but the strains that comfort strikes amiss.  
Yet must thou make thy music still, but of that mournful strain,  
Where sorrow, in the sound of death, doth show her sweetest vain:  
Or, where her Muses all consent, in their consort to try  
Their sweetest music in desire to die, and can not die.  
The Pelican, that kills herself, her young ones for to feed,  
Is pleased to die, that they may live, that suck when she doth bleed▪  
But, while I in those cares consume, that would my spirit kill,  
Nought lives by me, when I must die, to feed but sorrows will.  
The Hart, that's hunted all day long, hath sport yet with the hounds,  
And haply beats off many a dog before his deadly wounds:  
But my poor heart is hunted still, with such a cruel cry,  
As, in their dogged humours, live, while I alone must die.  
The Swan that sings before her death doth show that she is pleased,  
To know that death will not be long in helping the diseased.  
But my poor Swan-like soul (alas) hath no such power to sing,  
Because she knows not when my death will make my care a king.  
What shall I say? but only say; I know not what to say:  
So many torments tear my heart, and tug it every way.  
My Sun is turned into a shade: or else mine eyes are blind,  
That sorrows cloud makes all seem dark, that comes into my mind.  
My youth, to age: or else, because my comforts are so cold,  
My sorrow makes me in conceit to be decrepit old.  
My hopes to fears: or else because my fortunes are forlorn,  
My fancy makes me make myself unto myself a scorn.  
My life, to death: or else because my heart is so perxplexed,  
I find myself but living dead, to feel my soul so vexed.  
For, what is here that earth can yield in pleasures sweetest vain,  
But, in the midst of all my cares, doth still increase my pain?  
While Epicures are overglut, I lie and starve for food,  
Because my conscience can not thrive upon ill gotten good.  
While other swim in choice of silks, I sit alone in rags,  
Because I can not fit the time, to fill the golden bags.  
While other are bedecked in gold, in pearl and precious stone,  
I sigh to see they have so much, and I can light of none.  
Not that I envy their estate, but wish that God would give  
Some comfort, to my careful hope, whereby my heart might live.  
Some please themselves in choice of sports, in trifles, and in toys▪  
While my poor feeble spirit feeds, of nothing but annoys.  
Some have their houses stately built, and gorgeous to behold,  
While in a cottage, bare and poor, I bide the bitter cold.  
Some have their chariots and their horse to bear them to and fro,  
While I am glad to walk on foot, and glad I can do so.  
Some have their musics harmony to please their idle ears,  
While of the song of sorrow, still, my soul the burden bears.  
Some have their choice of all perfumes, that nature's art can give;  
While sin doth stink so, in my soul, as makes me loath to live.  
They, like the wielders of the world, command and have their will;  
While I, a weakling in the world, am slave to sorrow still.  
The Owl, that makes the night her day, delights yet in the dark:  
But I am forced to play the Owl, that have been bred a Lark.  
The Eagle, from the lowest vale, can mount the lofty sky:  
But, I am fallen down from the hill, and in the vale must die.  
The Sparrow, in a Prince's house, can find a place to build:  
I scarce can find out any place, that will my comfort yield.  
The little Wren doth find a worm, the little Finch a seed;  
While my poor heart doth hunger still, and finds but little feed.  
The Bee doth find her honey flower, the Butterfly her leaf:  
But I can find a world of corn, that yields not me a sheaf.  
The horse, the Ox, the silly Ass, that tug out all the day,  
At night come home, and take their rest, and lay their work away;  
While my poor heart, both day and night, in passions overtoild,  
By overlabour of my brain, doth find my spirit spoiled.  
The winds do blow away the clouds, that would obscure the Sun:  
And, how all glorious is the sky, when once the storms are done!  
But, in the heaven of my heart's hope, where my loves light doth shine,  
I nothing see, but clouds of cares, or else my sun decline.  
The earth is watered, smoothed and dressed, to keep her gardens gay;  
While my poor heart, in woeful thoughts, must wither still away.  
The Sea is sometime at a calm, where ships at anchor ride,  
And fishes, on the sunny shore, do play on every side:  
But my poor heart, in sorrows seas, is sick of such a qualm,  
As, while these stormy tempests hold, can never look for calm.  
So that I see, each bird, and beast, the sea, the earth, the sky,  
All sometime in their pleasures live, while I alone must die.  
Now, think, if all this be too true (as would it were not so)  
If any creature live on earth, that do like sorrow know.  
Nay, ask of sorrow, even herself; to think how I am wounded,  
If she be not, to see my woes, within herself confounded;  
Or say, no figure can suffice, my sorrows frame to fashion,  
Where patience thus hath show'd herself, beyond herself in passion.   Par nulla figura dolori, nec dolor meo.  

A solemn farewell to the world.  

OH forlorn fancy, whereto dost thou live,  
To weary out the senses with unrest?  
Hopes are but cares, that but discomforts give,  
While only fools do climb the Phoenix nest.  
To heart sick souls, all joys are but a jest.  
Thou dost in vain, but strive against the stream,  
With blinded eyes to see the sunny beam.   

Die with desire, abandoned from delight.  
Thy weary winter lasteth all the year.  
Say to thyself, that darkness is the light,  
Wherein doth nothing but thy death appear;  
While wit, and sense, in sorrows heavy cheer,  
Finds thee an humour, but unkindly bred,  
Of hopes illusions, in too weak a head.   

Fortune affrights thee with a thousand fears,  
While folly feeds thee with abuse of wit:  
And, while thy force in fainting passion wears,  
Patience is ready to increase the fit,  
Where agonies in their extremes do sit.  
So that, each way, thy soul is so perplexed,  
As better die, then live to be so vexed.   

Say, patience somewhat do assuage thy pain;  
Prolonged cures are too uncomfortable:  
And where that care doth never comfort gain,  
The state, alas, must needes be miserable.  
Where sorrows labours are so lamentable,  
That silence says, that to the soul complains,  
Concealed sorrows are the kill pains.   

Then do not cease to sigh, and sob thy fill,  
bleed in the tears of true loves living blood,  
Show how unkindness seeks the heart to kill,  
That hides a Buzzard in a Falcon's hood.  
Feed not thyself with misconceipted good.  
Better to starve, then, in a sugared pill,  
To taste the poison of the spirits ill.   

But, if thou canst content thee with thy life,  
And wilt endure a double death to live,  
If thou canst bear that bitter kind of strife,  
Where cross conceits but discontents do give,  
If to this end, thou canst thine humour drive,  
And cares true patience can command thee so,  
Give me then leave to tell thee what I know.   

I know too well, that all too JOHg have tried,  
That earth containeth not that may content thee.  
Sorrow will so beset thee on each side,  
That wit, nor reason can the thought invent thee,  
But that will some way serve for to torment thee.  
Hope will deceive thee, happiness go by thee,  
Fortune will fail thee, and the world defy thee.   

Beauty will blind thine eyes, bewitch thine heart,  
Confound thy senses, and command thy will,  
Scorn thy desire, not look on thy desert,  
Disdain thy service, quite thy good with ill,  
And make no care thy very soul to kill:  
Time will outgo thee, sorrow onertake thee,  
And death, a shadow of a substance, make thee.   

I know this world will never be for thee:  
Conscience must carry thee another way.  
Another world must be for thee and me,  
Where happy thoughts must make their holiday,  
While heavenly comforts never will decay.  
We must not think in this ill age to thrive,  
Where faith and love are scarcely found alive.   

We must not build our houses on the sands,  
Where every flood will wash them quite away:  
Nor set our seals unto those wicked bands,  
Where damned souls their debts in hell must pay:  
Our states must stand upon a better stay:  
Upon the rock we must our houses build,  
That will our frames, from wind, & water shield   

Go, bid the world, with all his trash, farewell,  
And tell the earth, it shall be all but dust:  
These wicked wares that worldlings buy and sell,  
The Moth will eat, or else the canker ruft:  
All flesh is grass, and to the grave it must.  
This sink of sin, is but the way to hell,  
Leave it I say, and bid the world farewell.   

Account of pomp, but as a shadowed power,  
And think of friends, but as the summer flies:  
Esteem of beauty as a fading flower,  
And lovers fancies, but as fabled lies:  
Know, that on earth there is no Paradise.  
Who sees not heaven, is surely spirit-blinde,  
And like a body, that doth lack a mind.   

Then, let us lie as dead, till there we live,  
Where only love doth live for ever blest,  
And only love the only life doth give,  
That brings the soul unto eternal rest.  
Let us this wicked, wretched world detest,  
Where graceless hearts in hellish sins persever,  
And fly to heaven, to live in grace for ever.    

¶ A solemn conceit.  

1  
DOTH love live in beauties eyes?  
Why then are they so unloving?  
Patience in her passion proving:  
There his sorrow chiefly lies.   

2  
Lives belief in lovers hearts?  
Why then are they unbelieving,  
Hourly so the spirit grieving,  
With a thousand jealous smarts?   

3  
Is there pleasure in loves passion?  
Why then is it so unpleasing,  
Heart and spirit both diseasing,  
Where the wits are out of fashion?   

1  
No: love sees, in beauty's eyes:  
He hath only lost his seeing:  
Where in sorrows only being,  
All his comfort wholly dies.   

2  
Faith, within the heart of love,  
Fearful of the thing it hath,  
Treading of a trembling path,  
Doth but jealousy approve.   

3  
In loves passion then what pleasure?  
Which is but a lunacy:  
Where grief, fear, and jealousy  
Plague the senses out of measure.   

Farewell then (unkindly) fancy,  
In thy courses all too cruel:  
Woe, the price of such a jewel,  
As turns reason to a franzy.    

¶ A strange A, B, C.  

TO learn the babies A, B, C,  
Is fit for children, not for me.  
I know the letters all so well,  
I need not learn the way to spell:  
And, for the cross, before the row,  
I learned it all too long ago.   

Then let them go to school that list,  
To hang the lip, at Had I wist.  
I never loved a book of horn,  
Nor leaves, that have their letters worn,  
Nor with a fescue to direct me,  
Where every puny shall correct me.   

I will the truant play a while,  
And, with mine ear, mine eye beguile,  
And only hear, what other see,  
What mocketh them as well as me,  
And laugh at him, that goes to school,  
To learn with me to play the fool.   

But soft a while: I have mistook.  
This is but some imagined book,  
That wilful hearts in wantoness eyes,  
Do only by conceits devise:  
Where spell, and put together prove  
The reading of the rules of love.   

But, if it be so, let it be:  
It shall no lesson be for me.  
Let them go spell, that can not reed,  
And know the cross unto their speed;  
While I am taught but to discern,  
How to forget the thing I learn.    

¶ Fie on pride.  

THE hidden pride that lurks in beauties eyes,  
And overlookes the humble hearts of love,  
Doth nothing else but vain effects devise,  
That may discretion from the mind remove.   

Oh, how it works in wit, for idle words,  
To buy repentance but with labour lost:  
While sorrows fortune nothing else affords  
But showers of rain, upon a bitter frost.   

A wicked shadow that deceives the sight,  
And breeds an itch, that overrunnes the heart:  
Which, leaving reason in a piteous plight,  
Consumes the spirit, with a cureless smart.   

While wounded patience in her passion cries;  
Fie upon pride, that lurks in beauties eyes.    

¶ A farewell to love.  

FAREWELL love, and loving folly,  
All thy thoughts are too unholly:  
Beauty strikes thee full of blindness,  
And then kills thee with unkindness.   

Farewell wit, and witty reason,  
All betrayed, by fancy's treason:  
Love hath of all joy bereft thee,  
And to sorrow only left thee.   

Farewell will, and wilful fancy,  
All in danger of a franzy:  
Love to beauty's bow hath won thee,  
And together, all undone thee.   

Farewell beauty, sorrows Agent:  
Farewell sorrow, patience pageant:  
Farewell patience, passions stair:  
Farewell passion, loves betrayer.   

sorrows agent, patience pageant:  
Passions stair, loves betrayer,  
Beauty, sorrow, patience, passion,  
Farewell life of such a fashion.   

Fashion, so good fashions spilling:  
Passion, so with passions killing:  
Patience, so with sorrow wounding:  
Farewell beauty, loves confounding.    

¶ A jesting curse.  

FIE upon that too much beauty,  
That so blindeth reasons seeing,  
As, in swearing all loves duty,  
Gives him, no where else, a being.   

Cursed be thou all in kindness,  
That with beauty, love hast wounded;  
Blessing love, yet in such blindness,  
As in beauty is confounded.   

Ever mayst thou live tormented,  
With the faith of love unfeigned,  
Till thy heart may be contented  
To relieve whom thou hast pained.   

Thus, in wroth of so well pleased,  
As concealeth joys confessing,  
Till my pain be wholly eased,  
Cursed be thou, all in blessing.   

So farewell, and fairly note it;  
He, who as his soul doth hate thee,  
From his very heart hath wrote it,  
Never evil thought come at thee.    

¶ A solemn toy.  

IF that love had been a king,  
He would have commanded beauty:  
But, he is a silly thing,  
That hath sworn to do her duty.   

If that love had been a God,  
He had then been full of grace:  
But, how grace and love are odd,  
'tis too plain a piteous case.   

No: love is an idle jest,  
That hath only made a word  
Like unto a Cuckoos nest,  
That hath never hatched a bird.   

Then, from nothing to conceive  
That may any substance be;  
Yet so many doth deceive,  
Lord of heaven deliver me.    

A displeasure against love.  

LOVE is witty, but not wise,  
When he stars on beauty's eyes,  
Finding wonders in conceit,  
That do fall out but deceit.   

Wit is stable, but not stayed,  
When his senses are betrayed:  
Where, too late sorrow doth prove,  
Beauty makes a fool of love.   

Youth is forward, but too fond,  
When he falls in Cupid's bond:  
Where repentance lets him see,  
Fancy fast is never free.   

Age is cunning, but unkind,  
When he once grows Cupid-blinde.  
For, when beauty is untoward,  
Age can never be but froward.   

So that I do find in brief,  
In the grounds of nature's grief,  
Age, and youth, and wit do prove,  
Beauty makes a fool of love.    

¶ A farewell to conceit.  

FAREWELL conceit: Conceit no more well fare,  
Hope feeds the heart with humours, to no end:  
Fortune is false in dealing of her share:  
Virtue, in heaven, must only seek a friend.   

Adieu desire▪ desire, no more adieu.  
Will hath no leisure to regard desert:  
Love finds, too late, the proverb all too true,  
That beauty's eyes stood never in her heart.   

Away poor love: love, seek no more a way  
Unto thy woe, where wishing is no wealth:  
In nights deep darkness, never look for day,  
Nor in heart's sickness, ever seek for health.   

Desire, conceit, away, adieu, farewell.  
Love is deceived, that seeks for heaven in hell.    

An unhappy, solemn, jesting curse.  

OH venom, cursed, wicked, wretched eyes,  
The kill lookers on the heart of love:  
Where witching beauty lives but to devise  
The plague of wit, and passions hell to prove:   

That snowy neck, that chillest, more than snow,  
Both eyes & hearts, that live but to behold thee:  
That graceless lip, from whence loves grief dothgrow,  
Who doth, in all his sweetest sense enfold thee:   

Those chaining hairs more hard than iron chains,  
In tying fast the fairest thoughts of love,  
Ye shameful cheeks, that in your blushing veins,  
The ravished passions of the mind do prove:   

Ye spider fingers of those spiteful hands,  
That work but webs, to tangle fancy's eyes:  
That Idol breast, that like an Image stands,  
To work the hell of reasons heresies:   

Those Fairy feet, whose chary steps do steal  
Those hearts, whose eyes do but their shadows see:  
That ruthless spirit, that may well reveal,  
Where loves confusions all included be:   

To thee, that canst, or wilt not bend thy will,  
To use thy gifts all gracious in their nature,  
To patience good, and not to passions ill,  
And mayst, and wilt not be a blessed creature,   

I wish, and pray, thine eyes may weep for woe  
They cannot get one look of thy beloved:  
Thy snowy neck may be as cold as snow,  
With cold of fear, it hath no fancy moved.   

Thy lip, in anger by thy teeth be bitten,  
It can not give one kissing sweet of love:  
And, by thy hands, thy shriu'led hairs be smitten,  
For want of holding of thy hopes behove:   

Thy blushing cheeks lose all their lively blood,  
With pining passions of impatient thought:  
That Idol body, like a piece of wood,  
Consume, to see it is esteemed for nought.   

Those spider fingers, and those Fairy feet  
The cramp so crook, that they may creep for grief:  
And, in that spirit sorrows poisons meet,  
To bring on death, where love hath no relief.   

All these, and more just measures of amiss  
Upon thy frowns, on faithful love, befall:  
But, sweetly smile, & then heavens pour their bliss  
On thy hairs, neck, cheeks, lip, hands, feet, & all.    

¶ A quarrel with love.  

OH that I could write a story  
Of loves dealing with affection;  
How he makes the spirit sorry,  
That is touched with his infection.   

But he doth so closely wind him,  
In the plaits of will ill pleased,  
That the heart can never find him,  
Till it be too much diseased.   

'tis a subtle kind of spirit,  
Of a venom kind of nature,  
That can, like a coney ferret,  
Creep unwares upon a creature.   

Never eye that can behold it,  
Though it worketh first by seeing;  
Nor conceit, that can unfold it,  
Though in thoughts be all his being.   

Oh, it maketh old men witty,  
Young men wanton, women idle,  
While that patience weeps, for pity  
Reason bits not natures bridle.   

In itself it hath no substance,  
Yet is working worlds of wonder,  
While, in frenzies fearful instance,  
Wit, and sense are put asunder.   

What it is, is in conjecture,  
Seeking much, but nothing finding:  
Like to fancy's architecture,  
With illusions, reason blinding.   

Day and night, it never resteth,  
Mocking fancy with ill fortune,  
While the spirit it molesteth,  
That doth patience still importune.   

Yet, for all this, how to find it,  
'tis unpossible to show it;  
When the Muse, that most doth mind it,  
Will be furthest off to know it.   

Yet can beauty so retain it,  
In the profit of her service,  
That she closely can maintain it,  
For her servant chief in office.   

In her eye, she chiefly breeds it:  
In her cheeks, she chiefly hides it:  
In her servants faith, she feeds it,  
While his only heart abides it.   

All his humour is in changing:  
All his work is in invention:  
All his pleasure is in ranging:  
All his truth but in intention.   

Strange, in all effects conceived:  
But, in substance, nothing sounded,  
While the senses are deceived,  
That on idle thoughts are grounded.   

Not to dwell upon a trifle,  
That doth follies hope befall,  
'tis but a new nothing nifle,  
Made for fools to play withal.    

¶ A wish in vain.  

OH, that wit were not amazed,  
At the wonder of his senses:  
Or his eyes, not overgazed,  
In Minerva's excellences.   

Oh, that reason were not foiled,  
In the rules of all his learning:  
Or his learning were not spoiled,  
In the sweet of loves discerning.   

Oh, that beauty were not froward,  
In regard of reason's duty:  
Or, that will were not untoward,  
In the wayward wit of beauty.   

But, since all in vain are wishes,  
Patience tells them that have past it;  
poisoned broth, in silver dishes,  
Kills their stomachs that do taste it.   

Wit, and reason, love, and learning,  
All in beauties eyes are blinded,  
Where, in sense of sweet discerning,  
She will be unkindly minded.   

Let those hearts, whose eyes perceive her,  
Triumph, but in thoughts tormented:  
Labour all they can to leave her,  
Or else die, and be contented.    

¶ A conceit upon an Eagle, and a Phoenix.  

THERE sat sometime an Eagle on a hill,  
Hanging his wings, as if he could not fly:  
Black was his coat, and tawny was his bill,  
Grey were his legs, and gloomy was his eye,  
Blunted his talents, and his train so bruised,  
As if his bravery had been much abused.   

This foul old bird of some unhappy brood,  
That could abide no hawk of higher wing  
(But fed his gorge upon such bloody food,  
As might, in fear, maintain a cruel king)  
Fair on a rock of pearl and precious stone,  
Espied a Phoenix sitting all alone.   

No sooner had this heavenly bird in sight,  
But up he flickers, as he would have flown:  
But, all in fear, to make so far a flight,  
Until his pens were somewhat harder grown:  
He gave a rouse, as, who should say, in rage  
He show'd the fury of his froward age.   

And, for this Phoenix still did front his eyes,  
He called a counsel of his kites together:  
With whom, in haste, he would the mean devise,  
By secret art to lead an army thither,  
And so pull down, from place of high estate,  
This heavenly bird, that he had so in hate.   

Much talk there was, & wondrous heed was held  
How to achieve this high attempt in hand:  
Some out were sent to soar about the field,  
Where slew this grace and glory of the land,  
To mark her course, & how she made her wing,  
And how her strength might stand with such a king.   

And forthwith should such cages be devised,  
As should enclose full many thousand fowls:  
By whom, her seat should quickly be surprised,  
And all her birds should handled be like owls:  
No time detract this deed must needs be done:  
And ere they went, the world was wholly won.   

But, soft a while: no sooner seen the land,  
But, ere they came in kenning of the coast,  
So great a force their fortune did withstand,  
That all the bravery of the birds was lost:  
Some leakt, some sank, & some so ran on ground,  
The cages burst, and all the birds were drowned.   

But, when the eagle heard what was become  
Of all his flight, that flick'red here and there,  
Some sick, some hurt, some lame, & all & sum  
Or far from hope, or all too near in fear,  
He stooped his train, and hung his head so sore,  
As if his heart had never burst before.    

¶ A conceited fancy.  

PURE colours can abide no stain:  
The sun can never lose his light:  
And virtue hath a heavenly vain,  
That well may claim a queenly right:  
So, give my mistress but her due,  
Who told me all these tales of you.   

From heaven on earth, the Sun doth shine,  
From virtue comes discretion's love:  
They both are in themselves divine;  
Yet work for weaker hearts behove▪  
So, would my mistress had her due,  
To tell me still these tales of you.   

But, oh, the Sun is in a cloud,  
And virtue lives in sweets unseen:  
The earth with heaven is not allowed,  
A beggar must not love a Queen:  
So must my mistress have her due,  
To tell me still these tales of you.   

Then shine fair Sun, when clouds are gone:  
Live virtue in thy queenly love:  
Choose some such place to shine upon,  
As may thy Paradise approve;  
That, when my mistress hath her due,  
I may hear all this heaven in you.    

¶ A smile misconstrued.  

BY your leave, a little while:  
Love hath got a beauty's smile,  
From on earth, the fairest face:  
But, he may be much deceived,  
Kindness may be misconceived,  
Laughing, oft, is in disgrace.   

Oh, but he doth know her nature,  
And to be that blessed creature,  
That doth answer love with kindness.  
Tush, the Phoenix is a fable,  
Phoebus' horses have no stable:  
Love is often full of blindness.   

Oh, but he doth hear her voice:  
Which doth make his heart rejoice,  
With the sweetness of her sound.  
Simple hope may be abused.  
Hears he not he is refused?  
Which may give his heart a wound.   

No: love can believe it never.  
Beauty favours once, and ever,  
Though proud envy play the elf:  
Truth, and patience have approved  
Love shall ever be beloved,  
If my mistress be herself.    

¶ An odd humour.  

PURELY fair, and fairly wise,  
Blessed wit, and blessed eyes,  
Blessed wise, and blessed fair,  
Never may thy bliss impair.   

Kindly true, and truly kind,  
Blessed heart, and blessed mind,  
Blessed kind, and blessed true,  
Ever may thy bliss renew.   

Sweetly dear, and dearly sweet,  
Blessed, where these blessings meet:  
Blessed meetings never cease,  
Ever may thy bliss increase.   

Blessed beauty, wit, and sense,  
Blessed, in nature's excellence,  
Where all blessings perish never,  
Blessed mayst thou live for ever.    

¶ Awaggery.  

children's ahs, and women's ohs  
Do a wondrous grief disclose:  
Where a dug the tone will still,  
And the tother but a will.   

Then, in god's name, let them cry.  
While they cry, they will not die.  
For, but few that are so cursed,  
As to cry, until they burst.   

Say, some children are untoward:  
So some women are as froward:  
Let them cry them, 'twill not kill them:  
There is time enough to still them.   

But, if pity will be pleased  
To relieve the small diseased,  
When the help is once applying,  
They will quickly leave their crying.   

Let the child then suck his fill,  
Let the woman have her will,  
All will hush, was heard before:  
Ah, and oh, will cry no more.    

¶ An odd conceit.  

LOVELY kind, and kindly loving,  
Such a mind were worth the moving:  
Truly fair, and fairly true,  
Where are all these, but in you?   

Wisely kind, and kindly wise,  
Blessed life, where such love lies.  
Wise, and kind, and fair, and true,  
Lovely live all these in you.   

Sweetly dear, and dearly sweet,  
Blessed where these blessings meet.  
Sweet, fair, wise, kind, blessed, true,  
Blessed be all these in you.    

¶ A doleful fancy.  

sorrow rip up all thy senses,  
Nearest unto horror's nature:  
Taste of all thy quintessences,  
That may kill a wretched creature.   

Then, behold my woeful spirit,  
All in passions overthrown:  
And, full closely, like a ferret,  
Seize upon it for thine own.   

But, if thou do grow dismayed,  
When thou dost but look on me,  
When my passions well displayed,  
Will but make a blast of thee,   

Then in grief of thy disgraces,  
Where my fortunes do deface thee,  
Tell thy Muses to their faces,  
They may learn of me to grace thee.   

For, thy sighs, thy sobs, and tears  
But thy common badges been:  
While the pain the spirit bears,  
Eats away the heart unseen.   

Where, in silence swallowed up  
Are the sighs and tears of love,  
Which are drawn to fill the cup  
Must be drunk to deaths behove.   

Then beholding my heart's swoon,  
In my torments more and more,  
Say, when thou dost sit thee down,  
Thou wert never graced before.    

¶ An Epitaph upon Poet Spencer.  

MOURNFUL Muses, sorrows minions,  
Dwelling in despairs opinions,  
Ye that never thought invented,  
How a heart may be contented  
(But in torments all distressed,  
Hopeless how to be redressed,  
All with howling and with crying,  
Live in a contiwall dying)  
Sing a Dirge on Spencer's death,  
Till your souls be out of breath.   

Bid the Dunces keep their dens,  
And the Poets break their pens:  
Bid the Shepherds shed their tears,  
And the Nymphs go tear their hairs:  
Bid the Scholars leave their reeding,  
And prepare their hearts to bleeding:  
Bid the valiant and the wise,  
Full of sorrows fill their eyes;  
All for grief, that he is gone,  
Who did grace them every one.   

Fairy Queen, show fairest Queen,  
How her fair in thee is seen.  
Shepherds calendar set down,  
How to figure best a clown.  
As for Mother Hubberts tale,  
Crack the nut, and take the shalt:  
And for other works of worth,  
(All too good to wander forth)  
Grieve that ever you were wrote,  
And your Author be forgot.   

Farewell Art of Poetry,  
Scorning idle foolery:  
Farewell true conceited reason,  
Where was never thought of treason:  
Farewell judgement with invention,  
To describe a heart's intention:  
Farewell wit, whose sound and sense  
Show a Poet's excellence:  
Farewell all in one together,  
And, with Spencer's garland, whither.   

And, if any Graces live,  
That will virtue honour give,  
Let them show their true affection,  
In the depth of griefs perfection,  
In describing forth her glory,  
When she is most deeply sorry;  
That they all may wish to here,  
Such a song, and such a quire,  
As, with all the woes they have,  
Follow Spencer to his grave.    
FINIS.