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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 yet 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 fo cruelly
Proud of the spoil which thou hast got Of fimple Hearts through Love's shot,
By whom (unkind !) thou haft 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 sigh 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 fafely say and swear
Alas poor heart, thus haft thou spent
And when thou seek'it a quiet part
Give place, ye Ladies, and be gone,
Boaft not yourselves at all; For here at hand approacheth one
Whose face will stain you all.
Excels the precious stone,
To read or look upon.
Smileth a naked boy;
To see that lamp of joy.
Where she her shape did take ;
So fair a creature make.
Unto the Phenix kind,
That any man can find.
In truth Penelope,
In word and eke in deed ftedfast,
What will you more we say? Her roseal colour comes and goes
With such a comely grace,
Within her lively face;
Ne at no wanton play ;
Nor gadding as aftray.
Is mix'd with shamefaftness;
And hateth Idleness.
How Virtue can repair
Whom Nature made fo fair.
Our women now-a-days
And more a thousand ways.
Of this unspotted tree?
Which seem good corn to be.
When death doth what he can Her honeft fame shall ever live
Within the mouth of man.