THAT PATIENCE ALONE CAN HEAL THE WOUND INFLICTED BY ADVERSITY. 1 PATIENCE of all my smart! For Fortune is turned awry: 2 Patience to have a nay, And ever burn like fire. 3 Who can with merry heart Set forth some pleasant song, And never hath but wrong? 4 Patience! to be content, With froward Fortune's train! Somewhat to slake my pain: I see no remedy, But suffer patiently. 5 To plain where is none ear, My chance is chanced so; 1 THOUGH I cannot your cruelty constrain, 2 Though I your thrall must evermore remain, To rue upon my pain! 3 Though I have not deserved to obtain 4 But I see well, that your high disdain Will no wise grant that I shall more attain; This my poor, and small request; THAT TIME, HUMBLENESS, AND PRAYER, CAN SOFTEN EVERYTHING SAVE HIS LADY'S HEART. 1 PROCESS of time worketh such wonder, That water which is of kind so soft, 2 And yet an heart that seems so tender, 3 So cruel, alas! is nought alive, So fierce, so froward, so out of frame, 4 And I that always have sought, and seek 5 The lion in his raging furour Forbears that sueth, meekness for his [boot]; And thou, alas! in extreme dolour, The heart so low thou treads under thy foot. 6 Each fierce thing, lo! how thou dost exceed, And hides it under so humble a face! And yet the humble to help at need Nought helpeth time, humbleness, nor place. THAT UNKINDNESS HATH SLAIN HIS POOR TRUE HEART. Ir in the world there be more woe Than I have in my heart; Whereso it is, it doth come fro', And in my breast there doth it grow, For to increase my smart. Alas! I am receipt of every care; And of my life each sorrow claims his part. Who list to live in quietness By me let him beware. For I by high disdain Am made without redress; And unkindness, alas! hath slain My poor true heart, all comfortless. THE DYING LOVER COMPLAINETH THAT HIS MISTRESS REGARDETH NOT HIS SUFFERINGS. 1 LIKE as the swan towards her death Doth strain her voice with doleful note; I die I die! and you regard it not. 2 I shall enforce my fainting breath, 3 Your unkindness hath sworn my death, 10 4 Consumeth my life, faileth my breath, Your fault is forger of this note; Melting in tears a cruel death. I die! I die! and you regard it not. 5 My faith with me after my death To cry, THE CAREFUL LOVER COMPLAINETH, AND THE HAPPY LOVER COUNSELLETH. АH! Robin! Jolly Robin! Tell me how thy leman doth? And thou shalt know of mine. My lady is unkind, perdie!' Alack, why is she so? She loveth another better than me, And yet she will say, no.' RESPONSE. I find no such doubleness; I find women true. My lady loveth me doubtless, And will change for no new. LE PLAINTIF. Thou art happy while that doth last, That woman's love is but a blast, And turneth like the wind. F 10 |