HERE BEGYNNETH

A COMPLAYNT

OF

A DOLOROUS LOUER

VPON SUGRED WORDES AND FAYNED COUNTENAUNCE.

I

say, in right is reason, in trust is treason; The loue of a woman doth last but a season.

Imprinted by Robert Wyer.

HERE BEGYNNETH A COMPLAYNT OF

A DOLOROUS LOUER.

O, WHAT dyscomforte! O, what dueyll!
What greuaunce, O, what syghes depe,
Thus from my pleasure for to recuyll

By force of her from whens my paynes doth crepe !
To wepynge teres tourned is my slepe;

O, what rage, to loue suche a fygure!
Uoyded of pytie, replyte with rygoure.

O, what hope, what solace of suche seruyce!
O, how am I with dolour furnysshed!
O, what dyspayre, what sadnes, what dystres!
As one in bytter tourmentes garnysshed;
With paynfull thoughtes thus to be banysshed
From her that hath aboue all creatures

My herte, and shall whyle the worlde endures.

Where I haue euer ben constant and true,
Content and glad aboue all measure,

To do that thynge that myght ensure
To her delyght and dayly pleasure!
O dolorous tourment that I endure,
Thus vnkyndly to be forsaken!
Wolde God rayther deth had me taken.