Though for good-will I find but hate, And Cruelty my life to waste, And though that still a wretched ftate, Should pine my days unto the laft, Yet I profefs it willingly, To ferve and suffer patiently. There is no grief, no smart, no woe, That yet I feel, or after fhall, That from this mind may make me go; I do profefs it willingly, My Lute awake, perform the last The rocks do not fo cruelly Proud of the spoil which thou haft got Of fimple Hearts through Love's shot, By whom (unkind!) thou haft them won Think not he hath his bow forgot, Although my lute and I have done. Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain May chance thee lie withered and old And then may chance thee to repent The time that thou haft loft and spent, To cause thy Lover's figh and fwoon; Then fhalt thou know beauty but lent, And wish and want as I have done, Now cease my lute: this is the last ANONYMOUS. ODE. ADIEU defert, how art thou spent! As eafy 'tis the ftony rock Thus may'ft thou fafely fay and fwear Alas poor heart, thus haft thou spent And when thou seek'ft a quiet part Thou doft but weigh against the Wind; That thy true heart should cause thy woe. GIVE place, ye Ladies, and be gone, For here at hand approacheth one Whofe face will stain you all. The virtue of her lively looks Excels the precious stone, I wish to have none other books To read or look upon. In each of her two crystal eyes It would you all in heart fuffice To fee that lamp of joy. I think Nature hath loft the mould Where the her shape did take; Or elfe I doubt if Nature could So fair a creature make. She may be well compared Unto the Phenix kind, Whofe like was never feen or heard, That any man can find. In life she is Diana chaste, In truth Penelope, In word and eke in deed ftedfaft, More ruddier too than doth the rose At Bacchus' feaft none fhall her meet, Ne at no wanton play ; Nor gazing in an open street, Nor gadding as astray. The modest mirth that she doth use, O Lord, it is a world to fee Whom Nature made fo fair. As doth the Gilly-flow'r a weed, How might I do to get a graff When death doth what he can Her honeft fame fhall ever live Within the mouth of man. |