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The lover fufpected of change, praieth that it be not
beleved against him.

ACCUSED though I be, without defert,
Sith none can prove, believe it not for true;
For never yet, fince that you had my hart,
Intended I to falle, or be untrue.

Sooner I would of death fuftain the smart,
Than breake one worde, of that I promised you,
Accept therefore my fervice in good part,
None is alive, that can il tongue efchew,
Hold them as falfe, and let not us depart,
Our friendfhip old, in hope of any new.
Put not thy truft in fuch as ufe to faine,
Except thou minde to put thy frend to pain.
XXXIX

The lover abufed renounceth love.

My love to fcorn, my fervice to retain,
Therein me thought you ufed crueltie,
Since with good will I loft my libertie,
Might never wo yet caufe me to refraine.
But only this, which is extremitie,
To give me nought (alas) not to agree,
That as I was your man, I might remaine,
But fince that thus ye lift to order mee,

Yet fhall not nature change,
If pitie once win place,
Whom as unknowne and strange,
She now away doth chase.
And as the water foft,
Without forcing or strength,
Where that it falleth oft,
Hard ftones doth pierce at length,
So in her ftony heart,
My plaintes at last shall grave,
And rigour fet apart,
Winne graunt of that I crave.
Wherefore my playntes prefent
Stil fo to her my fuit,
As ye through her affent,
May bring to me fome frute.
And as the fhall me prove,
So bid her me regarde,
And render love for love,
Which is a juft reward.

The lovers cafe cannot be hidden, however ke dfiii.

YOUR lokes fo often caft, Your eyes fo frendly rolde, Your fight fixed fo fast, Alwaies one to beholde :

That would have been your fervant true and fast, Though hide it faine ye woulde

Displease you not, my doting time is past;
And with my loffe to leave I must agree,
For as there is a certaine time to rage,
So is there time fuch madnes to affwage.

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It plainly doth declare,
Who hath your hart in hold,
And where good will ye bare.
Faine would ye find a cloke,
Your brenning fire to hide,
Yet both the flame and smoke
Breakes out on every fide.
Ye cannot love so guide,
That it no issue winne,
Abrode nedes must it glide,
That brennes fo hotte within.
For cause your felf do wink,
Ye judge all other blinde,
And fecret it you think,
Which every man dothe finde.
In waft of spend ye winde,
Your felf in love to quit,
For agues of that kinde,
Wyll fhow, who hath the fit.
Your fighs you fet from farre,
And all to wry your wo,
Yet are ye ner the narre,
Men are not blinded fo.
Depely oft fwere ye no,
But all thofe othes are vaine,
So well your eye doth fhew,
Who putts your hart to paine.
Thinke not therefore to hide,
That ftill it felf betraies,
Nor feke meanes to provide,
To dark the funny dayes.
Forget those wonted wayes,
Leave of fuch froowning chere,
There will be found no ftaies,

To ftop a thing fo clcre.

The lover praietl not to be difdained, nor refufed,
miftrufted, nor forfaken.

DISDAINE me not without defert,
Nor leave me not fo fodeynly,
Since well ye wot, that in my hert,
I meane ye not but honeftly.

Refufe me not without caufe why,
Nor think me not to be unjust,
Since that by lott of fantafie,
This careful knot nedes knit I must.

Mistrust me not, though fome there be,
That fain would fpot my ftedfastneffe;
Beleve them not, fins that ye fe,
The profe is not, as they expreffe.
Forfake me not, till I deferve,
Nor hate me not, till I offende,
Destroy me not, till that I fwerve,
But fins ye know what I entende.

Difdaine me not, that am your owne,
Refuse me not, that am so true,
Miftruft me not till all be knowen,
Forfake me not, now for no new.

The lover lamenteth bis eftate, with fute for grace.

FOR want of will in wo† plaine, Under colour of fobernefs, Renewing with my fute my paine, My wan hope with your ftedfaftneffe. Awake therefore of gentlenesse, Regard at length, I you require, My fwelting paines of my defire. Betimes who geveth willingly, Redoubled thankes aye doth defervė, And I that fue unfainedly, In fruitleffe hope alas do fterve. How great my caufe is for to fwerve, And yet how stedfaft is my fute, Lo! here ye fee, where is the frute. As hounde that hath his keper loft, Seke I your prefence to obtaine, In which my hart deliteth moft, And fhall delight though I be slain. You may releafe my hand of paine, Lofe then the care that makes me crie,

For want of help or els 1 dye.

I dye though not incontinent. By proceffe yet confumingly, Is waft 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 bis changed joyes.

If every man might him avaunt,
Of fortunes friendly chere,
VOL. I.

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

In yielding her fuch tribute lo,
As did fet forth her fame.
Sometime I ftood fo in her grace,
That as I would require,

Ech joy I thought did me embrace
That furdered my defire,
And all these pleasures lo! had I,
That fancy might support,

And nothing fhe did me deny,
That was unto my comfort.

I had (what would you more perdie)
Ech grace that I did crave,
Thus fortunes will was unto me,
All thing that I would have,
But all to rathe, alas! the while,
She built on fuch a ground,
In little space, to greate a guile,
In her now have I found.

For the hath turned fo her whele,
That I, unhappy man,

May waile the time that I did fele,
Wherewith the fed me then,
For broken now are her beheftes,
And pleafant lookes she gave,
And therefore now all my requestes,
From perill cannot fave.

Yet would I well it might appere
To her my cheife regard,

Though my defertes have been to dere
To merit fuch reward.

Sins fortunes will is now fo bent,
To plague me thus pore man,

I must my felf therewith content,
And bear it as I can.

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THE aunfwere that ye made to me my deare,.
When I did fue for my pore hartes redreffe,
Hath fo appalde my countenance, and my chere,
That in this cafe, I am all comfortleffe,
Sins I of blame no caufe can well exprefs.

I have no wrong, where I can claim no right
Nought tane me fro, where I have nothing had,
Yet of my wo, I cannot fo be quite,
Namely fins that another may be glad
With that, that thus in forrow makes me fad.
Yet none can claime (I fay) by former graunt
That knoweth not of any graunt at all.
And by defert, I dare well make a vaunt,
Of faithfull will, there is no where that fhall,
Beare you more trueth, more ready at your call.
Now good then, call againe that bitter word,
That toucht your frend io nere with plagues of
paine,

And fay my dere that it was faid in bord.
Late or to fone, let it not rule the gaine,
Wherewith free will doth true defert retayne.
Rr

To bis ladie, cruel over her yelden lover.

SUCH is the course that natures kind hath wrought,
That fnakes have time to caft away their ftings,
Against chain'd prifoners what nede defence be
fought,

The fierce lyon will hurt no yielding things;
Why should fuchspight be nurfed then by thoughts,
Sith all thefe powers are preft under thy wings,
And eke thou feeft, and reason thee Kath taught,
. What mifchiefe malice many wayes it brings,
Confider eke, that fpite avayleth nought,

Therefore this fong thy fault to thee it fings:
Difplease thee not, for faying thus (me thought)
Nor hate thou him from whom no hate forth
fprings,

For furies that in hell be execrable,

For that they hate, are made moft miferable.

XLVII

The lover complaineth the unkindaefs of his love.
Labour that thou and I fhall wast :
My lute awake perform the last
And ende that I have now begunne,
And when this fong is fong and past,
My lute be ftyll for I have done.

As to be heard where eare is none,
As leade to grave in marble stone,
My fong may pearce her hart as foon,
Should we then figh, or fing, or mone,
No, no, my lute, for I have done.

The rocks do not fo cruelly,
Repulfe the waves continually,
As the my fuite and affection:
So that I am paft remedy,

Whereby my lute and I have done.

Proude of the fpoyle that thou hast gotte, Of fimple hearts through loves fhot, By whome unkind thou hast them wonne, Think not he hath his bow forgott,

The lover complaineth that deadly sickness cannot belp his | Although my lute and I have done.

affection.

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The lover rejoyceth the enjoying of his love.
ONCE as methought fortune me kist,
And bade me ask what I thought beft,
And I fhould have it as me lyft,
Therewith to fet my hart at reft.

I asked but my ladyes hart,
To have forevermore myne owne,
'Then at an end were all my fmart,
Then should I nede no more to mone!
Yet for all that a stormy blaft,
Had overturn'd this goodly nay:
And fortune femed at the laft,
That to her promife she said nay.
But like as one out of difpaire,
To fodeyne hoape revived 1;
Now fortune fheweth her felfe fo fayre,
That I content me wonderfly.

My most defyre my hand my reach,
My will is alway at my hande,
Me nede not long for to befech,
Her that hath power me to comande.

What earthly thing more can I crave,
What would I wish more at my will;
Nothing on earth more would I have,
Save that I have, to have it fill.

For fortune now hath kept her promeffe, In graunting me my moft defyre, Of my foveraigne I have redress, And I content me with my hyre.

Vengeance hall fall on thy disdaine That makeft but game on earnest payne, Think not alone under the funn, Unquit to caufe thy lovers playne, Although my lute and I have done.

May chanced thee lye withred and old, In winter nights that are fo cold, Playing in vaine unto the moon, Thy wishes then dare not be told, Care then who lift for I have done.

And then may chaunce thee to repent, The time that thou haft loft and spent, To cause thy lovers fighe and swone, Then fhalt thou know beauty but lent, And wish and want as I have done.

Now cease my lute this is the last,
Labour that thou and I fhall wait,
And ended is that we begonne,
Now is this fong both fong and past.
My lute be still for I have done.

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Thorow mine eye the stroke from hers dyd flide, And down directly to my heart it ranne, In help whereof the blood thereto did glide, And left my face both pale and wanne.

Then was I like a man for wo amazed, Or like the fowle that flyeth into the fyre, For while that I upon her beauty gafed, The more I burned in my defire.

Anon the blood start in my face agayne, Inflam'd with heat, that it had at my hart,. And brought therewith throughout in every veine, A quakeing heat with pleasant fmart.

Then was I like the ftraw, when that the flame Is driven therein, by force and rage of wynde. 1 can not tell, alafs! what fhall I blame, Nor what to feke, nor what to finde.

But well I wot the grief doth hold me fore, In heat and cold, betwixt both hope and dreade, 'That, but her help to health doe me restore, This reftleffe lyfe I may not leade.

To his lover to looke vpon him.

ALL in thy looke my life doth whole depend,
Thou hydeft thy felf, and I muft dye therefore,
But fince thou may'ft fo eafely help thy frende,
Why doeft thou stick to falve that thou madest
fore:

Why do I dye, fince thou mayft me defend,
And if I dye thy life may laft noe more,
For each by other doth live and have reliefe,
I in thy look, and thou most in my griefe.

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The lower excufeth him of woordes, wherewith he was unjuftly charged.

PERDY I fayde it not,
Nor never thought to doc,
As well as I ye wot,
I have no power thereto.
And if I dyd, the lot

That first dyd me exchange,
May never flake the knot,
But ftrayt it to my payne.
And if I did eche thing,
That may do harme or wo,
Continually may wring,
My heart where so I goe.
Report may always ring
Of shame on me for aye,
If in my heart did spryng,
The words that you doe fay.
And if I did, each starr,
That is in heaven above,
May frame on me to marre,
The hope I have in love.
And if I did fuch warr
As they brought unto Troy,
Bring all my life as farre
From all his luft and joye.

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And if I did fo faye,
The beauty that me bounde,
Encrease from day to day,
More cruel to my wounde.
With all the mone that may,
To plaint my turne my song,
My lyfe may foon decaye,
Without redreffe by wrong.

If I be cleare from thought,
Why do you then complayne,
Then is this thing but fought,
To turne my hart to payne.

Then this that you have wrought, You must it now redreffe, Of right therefore you ought, Such rigour to repreffe

And as I have deferved,
So grant me now my hyre.
You know I never fwerved,
You never found me lyer.

For Rachel have I ferved,
For Lea carde I never,
And her I have reserved
Within my hart for ever.

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Of love, fortune, and the lovers minde.

Love, fortune, and my minde which doe remember
Eke that is now, and that once hath bene,
Torment my hart fo fore that very often
1 hate and envy them beyond all measure.
Love fleeth my hart, while fortune is depriver,
Of all my comfort, the foolish minde than,
Burneth and plaineth, as one that very feldome,
Liveth in rest so still in displeasure ;
My pleasant dayes they flete and paffe
And dayly doth myne yll change to the worfe,
When more than halfe is runne now of my course.
Alas! not of ftele, but of brittle giafs,
I fee that from my hand falleth my trust,
And all my thoughts are dashed into duft.

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How oft have I, my dere and cruel foe,
With my great paine to get fome peace or truce,,
Given you my hart but you do not use,
In foe high things, to caft your mind fo low.
If any other looke for it as you trow,

Their vaine, weake hope doth greatly them abuse,
And that thus I difdaine, that you refuse,
It was once mine, it can no more be fo.
If you it chafe that it in you can find
In this exile no manner of confort,

Nor live alone nor where he is cald refort,
He may wander from his natural kinde.
So fhall it be great hurt unto us twaine,

And yours the lofs, and mine the deadly paine.

LIX

The lovers life compared to the Alpes.

LIKE unto thefe unmeasurable mountaines,
So in my painfull life the burden of yre,
For hie be they, and hie is my defire,
And I of teares, and they be full of fountaines.
Under craggy rocks they have barren plaines,
Hard thoughts in me my wofull minde doth tire,
Small fruite and many leaves theire tops do attire,
With fmall effect great truft in me remaines.
The boisterous winds oft theire high bowes do
blast,

Hott fighes in me continually be shed,
Wilde beafts in them, firce love in me is fed,
Unmoveable am I, and they ftedfast.

of finging-birds, they have the tune and note, And I alwayes plaintes paffing through my throte.

LXI

n

Charging of bis love as unpiteous and loveing other.

Ir amorous faith, or if an hart unfeined,

I fwete langeur, a great lovely defire,
If honeft will kindled in gentle fire,
If long errour in a blind mafe chained.
If in my vifage eche thought diftained,
Or my fparkling voice, lower or hier,
Which feare and fhame fo wofully doth tire,
If pale colour which love alas hath stained.
If to have another, then my self more dere,
If waleing or fighing continually.
With forrowful anger feding bufily
If burned farr of and if frifing nere.
Are cause that I by love my felf destroye,
Yours is the fault, and mine the great annoy.

LXA

A renouncing of love.

FAREWELL love, and all thy lawes for ever,
Thy bated hookes fhall tangle me no more,
Seneca, and Plato call me from thy lore,
To parfit welth my witt for to endever.
In blind error when I did perfever.
Thy fharp repulfe, that pricketh aye fo fore
Taught me in trifles that I fet noe ftore,
But fcape forth thence fince libertie is lieffer.
Therefore farewell go trouble younger harts,
And in time claime noe more auctoritie,
With idle youth goe ufe thy propertie,
And thereon fpend thy many brittle dartes.
For hitherto though I have loft my time,
Me lift no longer rotten bowes to clime.

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My hart I gave thee not to doe it paine,
But to preferve lo it to thee was taken,

I ferved thee, thee not that I should be forfaken,
But that I fhould receive reward againe.
I was content, thy fervant to remaine,
And not to be repayed on this fashion,
Now fince in thee there is no other reason,
Displease thee not if that I de refraine.
Unfatiat of my wo and thy defire,
Affured by craft for to excufe thy fault,
But fince it pleaseth thee to fain default,
Farewell I fay, departing from the fire.
For he that doth believe bearing in hand,
Ploweth in the water and foweth in the fand.

LXIV

The lover defcribeth bis refilesse state.

THE flameing fighes that boyle within my bread, Sometime break forth and they can well declare, The hartes unreft, and how that he doth fear, The paine thereof, the griefe, and all the ref.

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