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النشر الإلكتروني

What's the cause that She leaves you alone,
And a new way doth take?
Who loved you once as her own,
And her joy did you make.

I have loved her all my youth;
But now old, as you see,
Love likes not the falling fruit
From the withered tree!

Know, that Love is a careless child,
And forgets promise past;
He is blind; he is deaf when he list,
And in faith never fast!

His desire is a dureless content,
And a trustless joy.

He is won, with a world of despair;
And is lost, with a toy.

Of womenkind such indeed is the love;
Or the word Love abused,
Under which many childish desires
And conceits are excused.

But True Love is a durable fire,
In the mind ever burning;

Never sick! never old! never dead!
From itself never turning!

WHAT is our Life? A Play of Passion!
Our mirth? The Music of Division!

Our mothers' wombs, the Tiring Houses be;
Where we are dressed for this short Comedy!
Heaven, the judicious sharp Spectator is,

That sits, and marks still, Who do act amiss?
Our graves, that hide us from the searching sun,
Are like Drawn Curtains, when the Play is done.
Thus march we, Playing, to our latest rest;
Only we die in earnest! That's no jest!

FAREWELL TO THE COURT. LIKE truthless dreams, so are my joys expired; And past return are all my dandled days! My love, misled; and fancy, quite retired:

Of all which past, the sorrow only stays!
My lost delights, now clean from sight of land,
Have left me all alone in unknown ways.
My mind, to woe; my life in Fortune's hand:
Of all which past, the sorrow only stays!

As in a country strange, without companion,
I only wail the wrong of Death's delays!
Whose sweet Spring spent, whose Summer wellnigh
is done:

Of all which past, the sorrow only stays!
Whom care forewarns, ere age or Winter's cold,
To haste me hence, to find my fortune's fold!

A POESY TO PROVE AFFECTION

IS NOT LOVE.

CONCEIT, begotten by the eyes,

Is quickly born, and quickly dies:
For while it seeks our hearts to have,
Meanwhile there Reason makes his grave.
For many things the eyes approve,
Which yet the heart doth seldom love.

For as the seeds, in Spring-time sown,
Die in the ground, ere they be grown;
Such is Conceit! whose rooting fails,
As child that in the cradle quails;
Or else, within the mother's womb,
Hath his beginning, and his tomb.

Affection follows Fortune's wheels;
And soon is shaken from her heels!
For following Beauty, or Estate,
Her liking still is turned to hate.
For all affections have their change;
And Fancy only loves to range.

Desire himself runs out of breath;
And getting, doth but gain his death!
Desire, nor reason hath, nor rest;

And, blind, doth seldom choose the best!
Desire attained is not Desire;

But as the cinders of the fire.

As ships, in ports desired are drowned;
As fruit, once ripe, then falls to ground;
As flies, that seek for flames, are brought
To cinders by the flames they sought:
So fond Desire, when it attains,

The life expires! the woe remains!

And yet some Poets fain would prove
Affection to be perfect Love!
And that Desire is of that kind,
No less a Passion of the mind!
As if wild beasts and men did seek
To like, to love, to choose, alike!

A REPORTING SONNET.

HER face, her tongue, her wit, so fair, so sweet, so sharp, First bent, then drew, now hit, mine eye, mine ear, mine heart. Mine eye, mine ear, my heart, to like, to learn, to love, Her face, her tongue, her wit, doth lead, doth teach, doth move. Her face, her tongue, her wit, with beams, with sound, with art, Doth blind, doth charm, doth rule, mine eye, mine ear, my heart.

Mine eye, mine ear, my heart, with life, with hope, with skill, Her face, her tongue, her wit, doth feed, doth feast, doth fill. O, face, O, tongue, O, wit, with frowns, with checks, with smart, Wring not, vex not, wound not, mine eye! mine ear! my heart! This eye, this ear, this heart, shall joy, shall bind, shall swear, Your face, your tongue, your wit, to serve! to love! to fear!

MELIBUS. SHEPHERD, what is Love? I pray thee, tell !
FAUSTUS. It is that fountain, and that well,
Where Pleasure and Repentance dwell.

It is, perhaps, that sauncing bell
That tolls all in, to heaven; or hell.
And this is Love, as I hear tell!

MEL. Yet, what is Love? I prithee, say!
FAU. It is a work on holiday.

It is December matched with May,
When lusty bloods, in fresh array,
Hear ten months after of the play.

And this is Love, as I hear say!

MEL. Yet, what is Love? Good Shepherd, sain!
It is a sunshine mixed with rain.

FAU.

It is a toothache, or like pain.

It is a game, where none doth gain.

The Lass saith, 'No!'; and would full fain.
And this is Love, as I hear sain!

MEL. Yet, Shepherd, what is Love? I pray!
FAU. It is a 'Yea!' It is a 'Nay!'

A pretty kind of sporting fray.

It is a thing will soon away!

Then, Nymphs! take vantage, while ye may!
And this is Love, as I hear say!

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