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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 last, Yet I profess it willingly, To serve and suffer patiently.
There is no grief, no smart, no woe, That I feel, or after shall, That from this mind may make me go; And, whatsoever me befal, I do profess it willingly, To serve and suffer patiently.
My Lute awake, perform the last
The rocks do not so cruelly
suit and affection: So that I am past remedy, Whereby my lute and I have done.
Proud of the spoil which thou hast got Of simple Hearts through Love's shot,
By whom (unkind!) thou hast 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 hast loft and spent, To cause thy Lover's figh and swoon; Then shalt thou know beauty but lent, And wish and want as I have done,
Now cease my lute: this is the last
As easy 'tis the stony rock
Thus may'st thou safely say and swear
Alas poor heart, thus haft thou spent
And when thou seek'st a quiet part
Give place, ye Ladies, and be
all. The virtue of her lively looks
Excels the precious stone,
To read or look upon.
Smileth a naked boy;
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.
Unto the Phenix kind,
That any man can find.
In truth Penelope,
In word and eke in deed stedfast,
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 modeft mirth that she doth use,
Is mix'd with shamefaftness;
And hateth Idleness.
How Virtue can repair
Whom Nature made fo fair.
Our women now-a-days
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 Her honeft fame shall ever live
Within the mouth of man.