Nor seke meanes to provide
To dark the sunny dayes.
Forget those wonted wayes,
Leave of such frowning chere,
There wyll be found no stayes,
To stoppe a thing so clere.
THE LOUER PRAIETH NOT TO BE DISDAINED, REFUSED,
MISTRUSTED, NOR FORSAKEN.
DISDAINE me not without desert;
Nor leaue me not so sodenly;
Since well ye wot, that in my hert,
1 meane ye not but honestly.
Refuse me not without cause why;
Nor think me not to be unjust,
Since that by lot of fantasie,
This careful knot nedes knit I must.
Mistrust me not, though some there be,
That faine woulde spot my stedfastnesse;
Beleue them not, sins that ye se,
The profe is not as they expresse.
Forsake me not, till I deserue,
Nor hate me not, till I offende,
Destroy me not, till that I swerue,
But sins ye know what I entende.
Disdaine me not, that am your owne,
Refuse me not, that am so true,
Mistrust me not till all be knowne,
Forsake me not now for no new.
THE LOUER LAMENTETH HIS ESTATE WITH SUTE FOR
For want of will in wo I plaine,
Under colour of sobernesse;
Renewing with my sute my paine,
My wan hope with your stedfastnesse.
Awake therefore of gentlenesse,
Regard at lenth, I you require,
My swelting paines of my desire.
Betimes who geveth wyllyngly,
Redoubled thanks aye doth deserue,
And I that sue unfeinedly,
In fruitlesse hope, alas! do sterue.
How great my cause is for to swerue,
And yet how stedfast is my sute,
Lo! here ye see: where is the frute?
As hounde that hath his keper lost,
Seke I your presence to obtaine;
In which my hart deliteth most,
And shall delight though I be slain.
You may release my band of paine;
Lose then the care that makes me crie
For want of helpe, or els I dye.
I dye, though not incontinent;
By processe yet consumingly;
As wast 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 HIS CHANGED IOYES.
IF euery man might him auant,
Of fortunes friendly chere,
It was my self I must it graunt,
For I haue bought it dere :
And derely haue I held also
The glory of her name,
In yielding her such tribute, lo,
As did set forth her fame.
Sometime I stoode so in her grace,
That as I would require,
Ech ioy I thought did me embrace
That furdered my desire;
And all these pleasures lo! had I,
That fansy might support;
And nothing she did me deny,
That was unto my comfort.
I had (what would you more perdie?)
Ech grace that I did craue.
Thus fortunes will was vnto me
All thing that I would haue:
But all to rathe, alas! the while,
She built on such a ground:
In little space, to greate a guile,
In her now haue I found.
For she hath turned so her whele,
That I vnhappy man
May wayle the time that I dyd fele,
Wherewith she fed me than;
For broken now are her behestes,
And pleasant lookes she gaue,
And therfore now al ny requestes
From perill cannot savę.
Yet would I well it might appere
To her my chiefe regard;
Though my desertes have been to dere
To merite such reward.
Sins fortunes will is now so bent
To plague me thus poore man,
I must my self therwith content,
And bear it as I can.
TO HIS LOUE THAT HAS GIVEN HIM ANSWERE OF REFUSELL.
THE answere that ye made to me, my dere,
When I did sue for my poore hartes redresse,
Hath so appalde my countnance, and my chere,
That in this case I am all comfortlesse,
Sins I of blame no cause can well expresse.
I haue no wrong, where I can claim no right, Nought tane me fro, where I have nothing had, Yet of my wo, I cannot so be quite;
Namely sins that another may be glad
With that, that thus in sorow makes me sad.
Yet none can claime (I say) by former graunt, That knoweth not of any graunt at all; And by desert, I dare well make auant, Of faithfull will; there is no where that shall, Beare you more truth, more ready at your call.
Now good then, call againe that bitter word, That toucht your frend so nere with pangs of paine; And say, my dere, that it was said in bord: Late or to sone, let it not rule the gaine, Wherwith free will doth true desert retaine.
TO HIS LADIE, CRUEL OUER HER YELDEN LOVER.
SUCH is the course that natures kind hath wrought,
That snakes haue time to cast away their stinges:
Against chainde prisoners what nede defence be
sought,
The fierce lyon will hurt no yelden thinges;
Why should such spight be nursed then by thought?
Sith all these powers are prest under thy winges,
And eke thou seest, and reason thee hath taught,
What mischiefe malice many wayes it bringes:
Consider eke, that spite availeth naught.
Therefore this song thy fault to thee it singes:
Displease thee not, for saying thus my thought
Nor hate thou him from whom no hate forth
For furies, that in hell be execrable,
For that they hate, are made most miserable.
THE LOUER COMPLAINETH THAT DEADLY SICKNESSE CANNOT HELP HIS AFFECTION.
THE enmy of life, decayer of al kinde,
That with his colde withers away the grene,
This other night me in my bed did finde,
And offerd me to rid my fever clene,
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