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.
I live and lack, I lack and have,
I have and miss the thing I crave.

Then like the lark, that past the night
In heavy sleep with cares opprest,
Yet, when she spies the pleasant light,

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 loathsome life I lead alway.

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!
It is now time to go to bed:
For, crooked age and hoary hairs

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,
My body shall obey thy will.

Thus lullaby my youth, mine eyes,
My will, my ware, and all that was!
I can no mo delays devise ;

But, welcome pain, let pleasure pass.
With lullaby now take your leave,
With lullaby your dreams deceive,
And, when you rise with waking eye,
Remember then this lullaby.

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
How faithfully I vow'd to serve:
And how thou seem'dst to like me well;
And how thou saidst I did deserve
To be thy lord, thy knight, thy king,
And how much more I list not sing.

And canst thou now, thou cruel one,
Condemn desert to deep despair?

Is all thy promise past and gone?
Is faith so fled into the air?
If that be so, what rests for me,
But thus, in song, to say to thee ?

If Cresside's name were not so known,
And written wide on every wall;

If bruit of pride were not so blown
Upon Angelica withall;

For hault disdain' thou mightst be she,
Or Cresside for inconstancy...

And, in reward of thy desert,

I hope at last to see thee paid With deep repentance for thy part,

Which thou hast now so lewdly play'd; Medoro, he must be thy make,

Since thou Orlando dost forsake.