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Thus may'st thou safely say and swear
That rigour reigns and ruth doth fail, In thankless thoughts thy thoughts do wear,
Thy truth, thy faith may nought avail For thy good-will. Why shouldst thou so Still graff where grace it will not grow?
Alas, poor heart, thus hast thou spent
Thy flowering time, thy pleasant years ! With sighing voice weep and lament,
For of thy hope no fruit appears : Thy true meaning is paid with scorn, That ever soweth and reapeth no corn.
And where thou seek'st a quiet port
Thou dost but weigh against the wind; For where thou gladliest wouldst resort,
There is no place for thee assign'd; Thy destiny hath set it so That thy true heart should cause thy woe.
A Praise of his Lady.
[Abridged from 56 lines.]
Give place, you ladies, and be gone,
Boast not yourselves at all;
Whose face will stain you all.
The virtue of her lively looks
Excels the precious stone,
To read or look upon.
In each of her two crystal eyes
Smileth a naked boy ; It would
all in heart suffice To see that lamp of joy.
I think Nature hath lost the mould
Where she her shape did take ; Or else I doubt if Nature could
So fair a creature make.
She may be well compared
Unto the phenix kind,
Whose like was never seen or heard,
That any man can find.
I life she is Diana chaste,
In truth Penelope ;
What will you more we say ?
Her roseal colour comes and goes
With such a comely grace, More ruddier too than doth the rose
Within her lively face ;
At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet,
Ne at no wanton play; Nor gazing in an open street,
Nor gadding as astray.
The modest mirth that she doth use,
Is mix'd with shamefastness ; All vice she doth wholly refuse,
And hateth idleness.
O Lord, it is a world to see
How virtue can repair,
Whom Nature made so fair.
Truly she doth as far exceed
Our women now-a-days,
And more a thousand ways.
How might I do to get a graff
Of this unspotted tree?
Which seem good corn to be.
This gift alone I shall her give.
When death doth what he can,
Within the mouth of man.
The Lover accusing his Love for her unfaithfulness,
purposeth to live in liberty.
[Abridged from 56 lines.]
The smoky sighs, the bitter tears
That I in vain have wasted,
That long in me have lasted,
The fruits were fair the which did grow
Within thy garden planted,
And moisture nothing wanted;
Thy body was the garden-place,
And sugar'd words it beareth;
Which, as the canker, weareth.
That all things sometime find ease of their pain, save
only the Lover.
[Abridged from 32 lines.]
Of things that live in grief,
Whereas they have relief.
The chaced deer hath soil,
To cool him in his heat;
In stable is up set.