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Thus warried he long time against his will ;
Till that through weaknesse he was forst at last
To yield himselfe unto the mightie ill,
Which, as a victour proud, gan ransack fast
His inward partes, and all his entrayles wast,
That neither blood in face nor life in hart
It left, but both did quite dry up and blast ;
As percing levi which the inner part
Of every thing consumes and calcineth by art.
Which seeing, fayre Belphæbe gan to feare
Least that his wound were inly well not heald,
Or that the wicked steele empoysned were :
Litle shee weend that love he close conceald.
Yet still he wasted, as the snow congeald
When the bright Sunne his beams thereon doth
Yet never he his hart to her reveald;
But rather chose to dye for sorow great
Then with dishonorable terms her to entreat.
Since I did leave the presence of my love,
Many long weary dayes I have outworne;
And many nights, that slowly seemd to move
Theyr sad protract from evening untill morn.
For, when as day the Heven doth adorne,
I wish that night the noyous day would end :
And, when as night hath us of light forlorne,
I wish that day would shortly reascend.
Thus I the time with expectation spend,
And faine my griefe with chaunges to beguile,
That further seemes his terme still to extend,
And maketh every minute seem a myle.
So sorrowe still doth seem too long to last ;
But ioyous houres do fly away too fast.
LIKE as the culver, on the bared bough,
Sits mourning for the absence of her mate ;
And, in her songs, sends many a wishful vow
For his returne that seems to linger late :
So I alone, now left disconsolate,
Mourne to myselfe the absence of my love;
And, wandering here and there all desolate,
Seek with my playnts to match that mournful dove ;
Ne ioy of ought, that under Heven doth love,
Can comfort me, but her own ioyous sight:
Whose sweet aspect both God and man can move,
In her unspotted pleasauns to delight.
Dark is my day, whyles her fayre lighi I mis,
And dead my life, that wants such lively blis.
To the right worshipful, my singular good friend, M.
Gabriel Harvey, doctor of the lawes.
HARVEY, the happy above happiest men,
I read ; that, sitting like a looker-on
Of this worldes stage, doest note with critique pen
The sharpe dislikes of each condition:
And, as one careless of suspition,
Ne fawnest for the favour of the great;
Ne fearest foolish reprehension
Of faulty men, which daunger to thee threat :
But freely doest, of what thee list, entreat,
Like a great lord of peerelesse liberty;
Lifting the good up to high Honours seat,
And the evil damning evermore to dy:
For life and death is in thy doomful writing !
So thy renowme lives ever by endighting.
Ye learned sisters, which have oftentimes
Beene to the ayding, others to adorne,
Whom ye thought worthy of your gracefull rymes,
That even the greatest did not greatly scorne
To hear theyr names sung in your simple layes,
But ioyed in theyr praise ;
And when ye list your own mishaps to mourne,
Which death, or love, or fortunes wreck, did rayse,
Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne,
And teach the woods and waters to lament
Your doleful dreriment:
Now lay those sorrowfull complaints aside;
And, having all your heads with girlands crownd,
Help me mine owne loves prayses to resound;
Ne let the same of any be envide :
So Orpheus did for his owne bride!
So I unto my selfe alone will sing ;
The woods shall to me answer, and my eccho ring.
Early before the worlds light-giving lampe,
His golden beame upon the hils doth spred,
Having disperst the nights unchearful dampe,
Doe ye awake; and with fresh lustyhed,
Go to the bowre of my beloved love,
My truest turtle dove;
Bid her awake ; for Hymen is ke,
And long since ready forth his maske to move,
With bis bright tead that flames with many a Aake,
And many a bachelor to waite on him,
In theyr fresh garments trim.
Bid her awake therefore, and soone her dight,
For loe! the wished day is come at last,
That shall, for all the paynes and sorrowes past,
Pay to her usury of long delight :
And, whylest she doth her dight,
Doe ye to her of ioy and solace sing, [ring
That all the woods may answer, and your eccho
Bring with you all the nymphes that you can heare,
Both of the rivers and the forrests greene,
And of the sea that neighbours to her neare ;
All with gay girlands goodly wel beseene.
And let them also with them bring in hand,
Another gay girland,
For my fayre love, of lillyes and of roses,
Bound truelove wize, with a blue silk riband.
And let them make great store of bridale poses,
And let them eke bring store of other flowers,
To deck the bridale bowers.
And let the ground whereas her foot shall tread,
For feare the stones her tender foot should wrong,
Be strewd with fragrant flowers all along,
And diapred lyke the discolored mead.
Which done, doe at her chamber door awayt,
For she will waken strayt;
The wbiles do ye this song unto her sing,
The woods shal to you answer, and your eccho ring.
Ye nymphes of Mulla, which with carefull heed
The silver scaly trouts do tend full well,
And greedy pikes which use therein to feed;
(Those trouts and pikes all others doe excell)
And ye likewise, which keepe the rushy lake,
Where none doo fishes take;