What 'vaileth truth, or perfect steadfastness?
Deceived is he by false and crafty train,'
That means no guile, and faithful doth remain
Within the trap, without help or redress:
But for to love, lo, such a stern mistress,
Where cruelty dwells, alas, it were in vain.
THE LOVER SENDETH SIGHS TO MOVE
HIS SUIT.
Go, burning sighs! unto the frozen heart,
To break the ice, which pity's painful dart
Might never pierce: and if that mortal prayer
In heaven be heard, at least yet I desire
That death, or mercy, end my woful smart.
Take with thee pain, whereof I have my part,
And eke the flame from which I cannot start,
And leave me then in rest, I you require.
Go, burning sighs! fulfil that I desire,
I must go work, I see, by craft and art,
For truth and faith in her is laid apart:
Alas, I cannot therefore now assail her,
With pitiful complaint and scalding fire,
That from my breast deceivably doth start.
Go, burning sighs!
THE LOVER SEEKING FOR HIS LOST
PRAYETH THAT IT MAY BE KINDLY ENTREATED
BY WHOMSOEVER FOUND.
1 HELP me to seek! for I lost it there;
have found it, ye that be herc,
And seek to convey it secretly,
Handle it soft, and treat it tenderly,
Or else it will plain, and then appair.1
But pray restore it mannerly,
Since that I do ask it thus honestly,
For to lese it, it sitteth me near;
Help me to seek!
2 Alas! and is there no remedy:
But have I thus lost it wilfully.
I wis it was a thing all too dear
To be bestowed, and wist not where.
It was mine heart! I pray you heartily
Help me to seek.
HE DETERMINETH TO CEASE TO LOVE.
FOR to love her for her looks lovely,
My heart was set in thought right firmly,
Trusting by truth to have had redress;
But she hath made another promess,
And hath given me leave full honestly.
Yet do I not rejoice it greatly;
For on my faith I loved too surely,
But reason will that I do cesse,
Since (that in love the pains been deadly,)
Methink it best that readily
I do return to my first address;
For at this time too great is the press,
And perils appear too abundantly,
For to love her.
1 Appair: Decay.
OF THE FOLLY OF LOVING WHEN THE
SEASON OF LOVE IS PAST.
YE old mule! that think yourself so fair,
Leave off with craft your beauty to repair,
For it is time without any fable;
No man setteth now by riding in your
saddle!
Too much travail so do your train appair;
Ye old mule!
With false favour though you deceive th'ayes,'
Whoso taste you shall well perceive your layes
Savoureth somewhat of a keeper's stable;
Ye must now serve to market, and to fair,
All for the burthen, for panniers a pair;
For since grey hairs ben powder'd in your sable,
The thing ye seek for, you must yourself enable
To purchase it by payment and by prayer;
THE ABUSED LOVER RESOLVETH TO
FORGET HIS UNKIND MISTRESS.
WHAT no, perdie! ye may be sure!
Think not to make me to your lure,
With words and chere so contrarying,
Sweet and sour countre-weighing,
Too much it were still to endure.
Truth is tried, where craft is in ure,2
But though ye have had my heart's cure,
ye I dote without ending?
What no, perdie!
Though that with pain I do procure
For to forget that once was pure;
Within my heart shall still that thing
Unstable, unsure, and wavering,
Be in my mind without recure?
What no, perdie!
THE ABSENT LOVER PERSUADETH
HIMSELF THAT HIS MISTRESS WILL NOT HAVE
THE POWER TO FORSAKE HIM.
IF it be so that I forsake thee,
As banished from thy company;
Yet my heart, my mind, and my affection,
Shall still remain in thy perfection,
And right as thou list so order me.
But some would say in their opinion,
Revolted is thy good intention.
Then may I well blame thy cruelty,
If it be so.
But myself I say on this fashion;
'I have her heart in my possession,
And of itself cannot, perdie!
By no means love, an heartless body!'
And on my faith good is the reason,
If it be so.
THE RECURED LOVER
RENOUNCETH HIS FICKLE MISTRESS FOR HER NEW
THOU hast no faith of him that hath none,
But thou must love him needs by reason;
For as saith a proverb notable,
Each thing seeketh his semblable,'
And thou hast thine of thy condition.
Yet is it not the thing I pass on,
Nor hot nor cold is mine affection!
For since thine heart is so mutable,
Thou hast no faith.
I thought thee true without exception,
But I perceive I lacked discretion;
To fashion faith to words mutable,
Thy thought is too light and variable
To change so oft without occasion.
Thou hast no faith!
THE LOVER COMPLAINETH THE UNKIND-
NESS OF HIS LOVE.
1 My lute, awake! perform the last
Labour, that thou and I shall waste;
And end that I have now begun:
And when this song is sung and past,
My lute! be still, for I have done.
2 As to be heard where ear is none;
As lead to grave in marble stone;
My song may pierce her heart as soon.
Should we then sigh, or sing, or moan?
No, no, my lute! for I have done.
3 The rocks do not so cruelly
Repulse the waves continually,
As she my suit and affection
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