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النشر الإلكتروني

Though hide it faine ye wouldę,
It plainely doth declare,

Who hath your hart in hold,
And where good will ye bare.

Fayne would ye finde a cloke, Your brenning fire to hide, Yet both the flame and smoke, Breakes out on every side. Ye cannot loue so guide, That it no issue winne: Abrode nedes must it glide, That brens so hotte within.

Four cause your self do wink,

Ye judge all other blinde,
And secret it you think,
Which euery man dothe finde.
In wast oft spende ye winde,
Your self in loue to quit;
For agues of that kinde,
Wyll show who hath the fit.

Your sighes you fet from farre,

And all to wry your wo;
Yet are ye ner the narre,
Men are not blinded so.
Depely oft swere ye, No;
But all those othes are vaine,
So well your eye doth shew,
Who puttes your hart to paine.

Thinke not therfore to hide, That still it self betrayes,

Nor seke meanes to provide
To dark the sunny dayes.
Forget those wonted wayes,
Leave of such frowning chere,
There wyll be found no stayes,
To stoppe a thing so clere.

THE LOUER PRAIETH NOT TO BE DISDAINED, REFUSED,
MISTRUSTED, NOR FORSAKEN.

DISDAINE me not without desert;
Nor leaue me not so sodenly;
Since well ye wot, that in my hert,
1 meane ye not but honestly.

Refuse me not without cause why;
Nor think me not to be unjust,
Since that by lot of fantasie,

This careful knot nedes knit I must..

Mistrust me not, though some there be,
That faine woulde spot my stedfastnesse;
Beleue them not, sins that ye se,
The profe is not as they expresse.

Forsake me not, till I deserue,
Nor hate me not, till I offende,
Destroy me not, till that I swerue,
But sins ye know what I entende.

Disdaine me not, that am your owne,

Refuse me not, that am so true,
Mistrust me not till all be knowne,

Forsake me not now for no new.

THE LOUER LAMENTETH HIS ESTATE WITH SUTE FOR

GRACE.

FOR want of will in wo I plaine,
Under colour of sobernesse;

Renewing with my sute my paine,
My wan hope with your stedfastnesse.
Awake therefore of gentlenesse,
Regard at lenth, I you require,
My swelting paines of my desire.

Betimes who geveth wyllyngly,
Redoubled thanks aye doth deserue,
And I that sue unfeinedly,

In fruitlesse hope, alas! do sterue.
How great my cause is for to swerue,
And yet how stedfast is my sute,
Lo! here ye see where is the frute?

As hounde that hath his keper lost,
Seke I your presence to obtaine;
In which my hart deliteth most,
And shall delight though I be slain.
You may release my band of paine;
Lose then the care that makes me crie
For want of helpe, or els I dye.

I dye, though not incontinent;
By processe yet consumingly;
As wast of fire, which doth relent:
If you as wilfull will deny.
Wherefore cease of such cruelty,
And take me wholy in your grace,
Which lacketh will to change his place.

THE LOVER WAILETH HIS CHANGED IOYES.

Ir euery man might him auant,
Of fortunes friendly chere,

It was my self I must it graunt,
For I haue bought it dere:
And derely haue I held also
The glory of her name,

In yielding her such tribute, lo,
As did set forth her fame.

Sometime I stoode so in her grace,
That as I would require,

Ech ioy I thought did me embrace
That furdered my desire;

And all these pleasures lo! had I,
That fansy might support;

And nothing she did me deny,

That was unto my comfort.

I had (what would you more perdie?)

Ech grace that I did craue.

Thus fortunes will was vnto me
All thing that I would haue:
But all to rathe, alas! the while,
She built on such a ground:
In little space, to greate a guile,
In her now haue I found.

For she hath turned so her whele,
That I vnhappy man

May wayle the time that I dyd fele,
Wherewith she fed me than;

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For broken now are her behestes,
And pleasant lookes she gaue,
And therfore now al my requestes
From perill cannot save.

Yet would I well it might appere
To her my chiefe regard;

Though my desertes have been to dere
To merite such reward.

Sins fortunes will is now so bent
To plague me thus poore man,
I must my self therwith content,
And bear it as I can.

TO HIS LOUE THAT HAS GIVEN HIM ANSWERE OF REFUSELL.

THE answere that ye made to me, my dere,
When I did sue for my poore hartes redresse,
Hath so appalde my countnance, and my chere,
That in this case I am all comfortlesse,
Sins I of blame no cause can well expresse.

I haue no wrong, where I can claim no right, Nought tane me fro, where I have nothing had, Yet of my wo, I cannot so be quite;

Namely sins that another may be glad

With that, that thus in sorow makes me sad.

Yet none can claime (I say) by former graunt, That knoweth not of any graunt at all; And by desert, I dare well make auant, Of faithfull will; there is no where that shall, Beare you more truth, more ready at your call.

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