A strange passion of a lover. I LAUGH Sometimes with little lust; So jest I oft, and feel no joy; Mine ease is builded all on trust, And yet mistrust breeds mine annoy. Then like the lark, that past the night She sends sweet notes from out her breast, So sing I now, because I think How joys approach when sorrows shrink. And as fair Philomene again Can watch and sing when other sleep, And taketh pleasure in her pain, To 'wray the wo that makes her weep, So sing I now, for to bewray The which to thee, dear wench, I write, That know'st my mirth, but not my moan; I pray God grant thee deep delight, To live in joys when I am gone. I cannot live; it will not be; I die to think to part from thee. The lullaby of a lover. SING lullaby, as women do, Wherewith they bring their babes to rest; And lullaby can I sing too, As womanly as can the best. With lullaby they still the child; And, if I be not much beguil'd, Full many wanton babes have I, Which must be still'd with lullaby. First lullaby my youthful years! Have won the haven within my head. With lullaby then youth be still, With lullaby content thy will; Since courage quails, and comes behind, Go sleep, and so beguile thy mind! Next, lullaby my gazing eyes, Which wonted were to glance apace; For every glass may now suffice To shew the furrows in my face. With lullaby then wink awhile; With lullaby your looks beguile; Let no fair face, nor beauty bright, Entice you eft with vain delight. And lullaby, my wanton will! Let reason's rule now rein thy thought, Since all too late I find by skill How dear I have thy fancies bought; With lullaby now take thine ease, With lullaby thy doubts appease; For, trust to this, if thou be still, Thus lullaby my youth, mine eyes, But, welcome pain, let pleasure pass. VOL. II. · Ed. 1572, “ Gascoigne's." N THE DOLE OF DISDAIN. Written by a Lover disdainfully rejected, contrary to former promise. I MUST alledge, and thou canst tell And canst thou now, thou cruel one, Is all thy promise past and gone? If Cresside's name were not so known, If bruit of pride were not so blown For hault disdain' thou mightst be she, |