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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.

yet

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
Labour that thou and I shall waste,
And end that I have now begun:
And when this song is sung and past,
My lute be still, for I have done.

The rocks do not so cruelly
Repulse the waves continually,
As she

my

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
That makest but game on earnest pain:
Think not alone under the Sun
Unquit to cause thy Lover's plaine,
Although my lute and I have done.

May chance thee lie withered and old
In winter nights that are so cold,
Plaining in vain unto the moon;
Thy wishes then dare not be told,
Care then who lift, for I have done.

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
Labour that thou and I shall waste,
And ended is that we begun;
Now is this Song both sung and past,
My lute be still, for I have done.

ANONYMOUS.

OD E.
Adieu desert, how art thou spent!
Ah dropping tears how do ye waste,
Ah scalding fighs how be ye spent,
To prick them forth that will not haste!
Ah pained heart thou gap'tt for grace
Even there where pity hath no place.

As easy 'tis the stony rock
From place to place for to remove,
As by thy plaint for to provoke
A frozen heart from hate to love :
What should I fay! such is thy lot
To fawn on them that force thee not.

Thus may'st thou safely say and swear
That rigour reigns where truth doth fail,
In thankless thoughts thy thoughts do wear,
Thy truth thy faith may not avail
For thy good-will. Why shouldst thou so
Still graft where grace it will not grow?

Alas poor heart, thus haft thou spent
Thy flowering time, thy pleasant years ?
With fighing 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 when thou seek'st a quiet part
Thou doft but weigh against the Wind;
For where thou gladdest wouldst resort
There is no place for thee assign'd;
Thy destiny hath set it so
That thy true heart should cause thy woe.

Give place, ye Ladies, and be

gone,
Boaft not yourselves at all;
For here at hand approacheth one
Whose face will stain

you

all. The virtue of her lively looks

Excels the precious stone,
I wish to have none other books

To read or look upon.
In each of her two crystal eyes

Smileth a naked boy;
It would

you

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,
Whofe like was never seen or heard,

That any man can find.
In life she is Diana chaste,

In truth Penelope,

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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;
All vice she doth wholly refuse,

And hateth Idleness.
O Lord, it is a world to see

How Virtue can repair
And deck in her fuch honesty

Whom Nature made fo fair.
Truly she doth as far exceed

Our women now-a-days
As doth the Gilly-flow'r a weed,
And more a

thousand

ways. How might I do to get a graff

Of this unspotted tree?
For all the rest are plain but chaff

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.

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