She may be well compared Unto the phenix kind, Whose like was never seen nor heard, That any man can find. In life she is Diana chaste, In troth Penelope, In word and eke in deed steadfast: * Her roseal colour comes and goes More ruddier too than doth the rose, At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet, Ne at no wanton play; Nor gazing in an open street, Nor gadding as a stray. The modest mirth that she doth use O Lord, it is a world to see How virtue can repair, And deck in her such honesty Truly she doth as far exceed How might I do to get a graff For all the rest are plain but chaff This gift alone I shall her give: Her honest fame shall ever live The Lover, accusing his Love for her Unfaithfulness, purposeth to live in Liberty. THE Smoky sighs, the bitter tears That I in vain have wasted, The broken sleeps, the wo and fears, That long in me have lasted, The love, and all I owe to thee, The fruits were fair the which did grow The leaves were green of every bough, 2 And moisture nothing wanted; Yet, or the blossoms 'gan [to] fall Thy body was the garden-place, The caterpillar is the same That hath won thee, and lost thy name. That all Things sometime find Ease of their Pain, save only the Lover. I SEE there is no sort Of things that live in grief, Which at some time may not resort * The chased deer hath soil To cool him in his heat; 1 So ed. 1567.-Ed. I. “ thy.” The ass after his weary toil In stable is up set. The cony hath his cave, The little bird his nest, From heat and cold themselves to save At all times as they list. The owl, with feeble sight, But, woe to me, alas! In sun, not yet in shade, The Lover, that once disdained Love, is now become subject, being caught in his Snare. [The couplet printed in italics is said to have been written by Mary Queen of Scots with a diamond on a window of Fotheringay Castle: probably, as Warton suggests, a recol lected passage from this poem. Vide Hist. E.Poet. III.56.] To this my song give ear who list, And mine intent judge as ye will; The time is come that I have miss'd The thing whereon I hoped still; And from the top of all my trust Mishap hath thrown me in the dust. The time hath been, and that of late, Of love's desire, nor took no charge My thought was free, my heart was light, I play'd by day, I slept by night, I forced not who wept, who laught; My thought from all such things was free, And I myself at liberty. I took no heed to taunts nor toys, As lief to see them frown as smile; Where Fortune laugh'd I scorn'd their joys, I found their frauds, and every wile ; And to myself ofttimes I smil'd, To see how Love had them beguil❜d. ! Perhaps saved, or won. |