Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain That mak'st but game on earnest pain: May chance thee lie wither'd and old Plaining in vain unto the moon; Thy wishes then dare not be told, Care then who list, for I have done. And then may chance thee to repent To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon; Now cease my lute: this is the last That each thing is hurt of itself. WHY fearest thou thy outward foe, When thou thyself thy harm dost feed? Of grief or hurt, of pain or wo, So fine was never yet the cloth, No smith so hard his ir'n did beat, But th' one consumed was with moth, Th' other with canker all to-fret. The knotty oak, and wainscot old, Thus every thing that Nature wrought The Lover in liberty smileth at them in thraldom, that sometime scorned his bondage. Ar liberty I sit, and see Them that have erst laugh'd me to scorn Whipp'd with the whip that scourged me, I And now they ban that they were born! 1 Curse. I see them sit full soberly And think their earnest looks to hide; I see them sitting all alone, Marking the steps, each word, and look; And now they tread where I have gone! The painful path that I forsook! I see them wander all alone, And tread full fast in dreadful doubt At liberty all this I see; And say no word but erst among; The lover in despair lamenteth his case. Ah dropping tears, how do ye waste! Ah pained heart, thou gap'st for grace As easy 't is 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 say? such is thy lot, To fawn on them that force thee not. Thus may'st thou safely say and swear That rigour reign'th and ruth doth fail, In thankless thoughts thy thoughts do wear, Thy truth, thy faith may nought avail For thy good will. Why should thou so Still graft where grace it will not grow? Alas, poor heart, thus hast thou spent For of thy hope no fruit appears : And where thou seeks a quiet port, Thou dost but weigh against the wind ; · Love. I For where thou gladdest wouldst resort, That thy true heart should cause thy wo. A Praise of his Lady. GIVE place, you ladies, and be gone. The virtue of her lively looks I wish to have none other books In each of her two chrystal eyes It would you all in heart suffice I think Nature hath lost the mould So fair a creature make. |