LOVE, miftreffe, is of many minds,
Yet few know whom they ferve, They reckon least how little Love Their fervice doth deferve.
The will the robbeth from the wit
The fenfe from reafon's lore,
She is delightfull in the rine,
Corrupted in the core.
She shroudeth vice in vertue's vaile,
Pretending good in ill,
She offereth joy, affordeth griefe,
A kiffe where the doth kill.
A honey-shower raines from her lips,
Sweet lights fhine in her face,
She hath the blush of virgine mind,
The mind of vipers race.
She makes thee feeke, yet feare to find
To finde, but not enjoy:
In many frownes fome gliding fmiles
Shee yeelds to more annoy.
Shee wooes thee to come neere her fire,
Yet doth the draw it from thee,
Farre off the makes thy hart to fry,
And yet to freeze within thee.
She letteth fall fome luring baits
For fooles to gather up ;
Too sweete, too fowre, to everie taste
She tempereth her cup.
Soft foules fhe binds in tender twist,
Small flyes in fpinners webbe ;
She fets afloate fome luring ftreames
But makes them foone to ebbe.
Her watrie eyes have burning force;
Her floods and flames confpire: -
Tears kindle sparks, fobs fuell are,
And fighs doe blow her fire.
May never was the Month of Love,
For May is full of flowers;
But rather Aprill, wet by kind,
For Love is full of fhowers.
Like Tyrant, cruel wound she gives,
Like Surgeon, falve fhe lends;
But falve and fore have equall force,
For death is both their ends.
With foothing words, inthralled foules
She chaines in fervile bands;
Her eye in filence has a fpeach
Which eye beft understands.
Her little sweet hath many fowres,
Short hap immortal harmes ;
Her loving lookes are murd'ring darts,
Her fongs bewitching charmes.
Like Winter rofe and Summer ife
Her jōyes are still untimely;
Before her Hope, behind Remorse :
Faire first, in fine unfeemely.
Moodes, paffions, fancies, jealous fits,
Attend upon her traine:
She yeeldeth rest without repose,
And Heaven in hellish paine.
Her house is Sloth, her doore Deceite,
And flipperie Hope her staires ;
Unbafhfull Boldness bids her guests,
And every Vice repaires.
Her dyet is of fuch delights
As please till they be paft;
But then the poyson kills the hart,
That did entise the taste.
Her fleepe in Sinne doth end in Wrath,
Remorfe rings her awake;
Death cals her up, Shame drives her out,
Despaires her up-fhot make.
Plow not the feas, fowe not the fands,
Leave off your idle paine;
Seeke other mistreffe for your mindes,
Love's fervice is in vaine.
Wherein eche thing renewes, fave only the Lover.
THE foote Season that bad and bloome fourth bringes,
With grene hath cladde the hyll, and eke the vale,
The Nightingall with feathers new she finges;
The turtle to her mate hath told her tale :
Somer is come, for every spray now springes;
The hart hath hong hys olde hed on the pale,
The bucke in brake his winter coate he flynges;
The fishes flete with new repayred scale;
The adder all her flough away fhe flynges;
The swift swalow purfueth the flyes fmale,
The bufy bee her hony now she mynges;
Winter is worne that was the floures bale;
And thus I fee among these pleasant thynges
Eche care decayes, and yet my forrow fprynges.
VERSES BY QUEEN ELIZABETH.
Greeve and dare not fhewe my difcontent,
I love and yet am forft to feeme to hate,
I doe yet dare not fay I ever meant,
I feeme starke mute, but inwardly doe prate
I am and not, I freeze and yet am burn'd
Since from myself, my other felfe I turn'd.
My care is like my fhaddowe in the fune
Followes me fliinge, flies when I purfue it,
Standes and lies by me, does what I have done,
This too familiar care does make me rue it,
No meanes I finde to rid him from my breft,
Till by the end of thinges it be fuppreft.
Some gentler paffions flide into my minde,
For I am fofte and made of meltinge fnowe;
Or be more cruell, Love, and fo be kynd,
Let mee or flote or finke, be high or lowe,
Or let me live with fome more fweete content,
Or dye and foe forget what love ere meant.
Signed, "Finis, Eliza. Regina, upon
Mount Zeurs departure," Afhinol.
Muf. MSS. 6969. (781) p. 142.
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