9 Of all such pleasant days,
Of all such pleasant plays,
Without desart,

You have your part,
And all the world so says;

Save that poor heart

That for more smart,

Feeleth not such pleasant days.

10 Such fire, and such heat,

Did never make ye sweat;
For without pain

You best obtain

Too good speed, and too great.

Whoso doeth plain

You best do feign,

Such fire, and such heat.

Who now doth slander Love?

DESPAIR COUNSELLETH THE DESERTED

LOVER TO END HIS WOES BY DEATH, BUT

REASON BRINGETH COMFORT.

1 Most wretched heart! most miserable,

Since thy comfort is from thee fled;

Since all thy truth is turned to fable

Most wretched heart! why art thou not dead?

2 'No! no! I live, and must do still; Whereof I thank God, and no mo;

For I myself have at my will,

And he is wretched that weens him so'

3 But yet thou hast both had and lost

6

The hope, so long that hath thee fed, And all thy travail, and thy cost;

Most wretched heart! why art thou not dead?

4 Some other hope must feed me new:

If I have lost, I say what tho!'

Despair shall not therewith ensue;

For he is wretched that weens him so.'

5 The sun, the moon doth frown on thee; Thou hast darkness in daylight stead: As good in grave, as so to be;

Most wretched heart! why art thou not dead?

6 Some pleasant star may show me light; But though the heaven would work me woe, Who hath himself shall stand upright;

And he is wretched that weens him so.'

7 Hath he himself that is not sure?
His trust is like as he hath sped.

Against the stream thou mayst not dure;
Most wretched heart! why art thou not dead?

8 The last is worst: who fears not that

He hath himself whereso he

go:

And he that knoweth what is what,

Saith he is wretched that weens him so.'

9 Seest thou not how they whet their teeth, Which to touch thee sometime did dread?

They find comfort, for thy mischief,

Most wretched heart! why art thou not dead?

1 Tho:' although.

6

10 What though that curs do fall by kind On him that hath the overthrow;

All that cannot oppress my mind;

For he is wretched that weens him so.'

11 Yet can it not be then denied,
It is as certain as thy creed,
Thy great unhap thou canst not hide;
Unhappy then! why art thou not dead?

12 Unhappy; but no wretch therefore!
For hap doth come again, and go,
For which I keep myself in store;
Since unhap cannot kill me so.'

THE LOVER'S LUTE CANNOT BE BLAMED

THOUGH IT SING OF HIS LADY'S UNKINDNESS.

1 BLAME not my Lute! for he must sound Of this or that as liketh me;

For lack of wit the Lute is bound

To give such tunes as pleaseth me;
Though my songs be somewhat strange,
And speak such words as touch thy change,
Blame not my Lute!

2 My Lute, alas! doth not offend,

Though that perforce he must agree
To sound such tunes as I intend,
To sing to them that heareth me;
Then though my songs be somewhat plain,
And toucheth some that use to feign,

Blame not my Lute!

3 My Lute and strings may not deny,
But as I strike they must obey;
Break not them then so wrongfully,
But wreak thyself some other way;
And though the songs which I indite
Do quit thy change with rightful spite,
Blame not my Lute!

4 Spite asketh spite, and changing change,
And falsed faith must needs be known;
The faults so great, the case so strange;
Of right it must abroad be blown:
Then since that by thine own desert
My songs do tell how true thou art,
Blame not my Lute!

5 Blame but thyself that hast misdone, And well deservèd to have blame;

Change thou thy way, so evil begone,

And then my Lute shall sound that same; But if till then my fingers play,

By thy desert their wonted way,

Blame not my Lute!

6 Farewell! unknown; for though thou break
My strings in spite with great disdain,
Yet I have found out for thy sake,
Strings for to string my Lute again:
And if, perchance, this sely rhyme
Do make thee blush, at any time,

Blame not my Lute!

THE NEGLECTED LOVER

CALLETH ON HIS PEN TO RECORD THE UNGENTLE
BEHAVIOUR OF HIS UNKIND MISTRESS.

1 My pen! take pain a little space
To follow that which doth me chase,
And hath in hold my heart so sore;
But when thou hast this brought to pass,
My pen! I pri'thee write no more.

2 Remember oft thou hast me eased,
And all my pains full well appeased,
But now I know, unknown before,
For where I trust, I am deceived;

And yet, my pen! thou canst no more.

3 A time thou hadest as other have
To write which way my hope to crave;
That time is past; withdraw, therefore:
Since we do lose that others have,

As good leave off and write no more.

4 In worth to use another way;
Not as we would, but as we may,
For once my loss is past restore,
And my desire is my decay;

My pen! yet write a little more.

5 To love in vain, who ever shall, Of worldly pain it passeth all,

As in like case I find; wherefore To hold so fast, and yet to fall!

Alas! my pen, now write no more.