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Where eche of us dyd pleade the others ryghte.
The palme play, where despoyled for the game,
With dazed eyes oft we by gleames of love,
Have myst the ball, and gote sighte of our dame
To bayte her eyes, whyche kept the leads above.
The gravel grounde, wythe sleves tyde on the helme
On foamyng horse, with swordes and frendly hartes;
Wythe chere as though one should another whelme
Where we have fought, and chased oft wyth dartes.
With silver droppes the meade yet spreade for ruthe,
In active games of nimbleness and strength,
Where we did strayne trayned with swarmes of youthe
Our tender limmes, that yet shot up in lengthe.
The secrete groves which oft we made resounde,
Of pleasant playnte, and of our Ladies prayse,
Recordyng oft what grace eche one had founde,
What hope of spede, what dreade of long delayes.
The wylde forrest, the clothed holtes with grene,
With raynes availed and swiftly breathed horse ;
Wyth cry of houndes and merry blastes betwene,
Where we did chase the feareful harte of force.
The wyde vales eke, that harborde us eche nyghte,
Wherewyth, (alas) reviveth in my breste
The swete accorde, such slep as yet delyt,
The pleasant dreames the quyet bed of rest;
The secret thoughtes imparted with such trust,
The wanton talke, the dyvers chaunge of playe;
The friendship sworne, eche promise kept so fast,
Wherewith we past the winter nyghte away.
And wyth thys thoughte, the bloud forsakes the face,
The teares berayne my chekes of deadly hewe,
The whyche as soone as sobbyng sighes, (alas !)
Upsupped have, thus I my playnt renewe:
O place of blisse! renewer of my woes !
Give me accompt where is my noble fere,
Whom in thy walles thou doest eche nyghte enclose,
To other leefe, but unto me most dere:
Eccho (alas !) that doth my sorrow rewe,
Returns thereto a hollowe sounde of playnt;
Thus I alone, where all

my freedome grewe,
In pryson pyne, withe bondage and restraynt:
And with remembrance of the greater griefe,
To banish the lesse, I fynd my chief reliefe.



The soote season that bud and bloome forth bringes,
With grene hath cladde the hyll, and eke the vale ;
The nightingall with fethers new she singes;
The turtle to her mate hath told her tale ;
Somer is come, for every spray now springes;
The hart hath hung hys olde head on the pale ;
The bucke in brake his winter coate he flynges;
The fishes fete with newe repayred scale ;
The adder all her slough away she flynges;
The swift swallow pursueth the flyes smalle;
The busy bee her honey how she mynges;
Winter is worne that was the floures bale.
And thus I see among these pleasant thynges
Eche care decayes, and yet my sorrow sprynges.



Give place ye lovers here before,
That spent your boastes and bragges in vain !
My ladies beuty passeth more,
The best of yours I dare well sayne,
Then doth the sunne the caundle-lyght,
Or bryghtest day the darkest nyght.
And thereto hath a troth as just
As had Penelope the fayre;
For what she sayeth ye may it trust,
As it by wrytyng sealed were:
And virtues hath she many moe,
Than I wyth pen have skill to showe.
I could reherse, if that I would,
The whole effecte of Natures playnt,
When she had lost the perfecte mould,
The lyke to whome she could not paynte:
With wringeing hands, how she did cry,
And what she said, I know it, I.

I knowe she swore with rageing mynde,
Her kyngdome only set apart,
There was no losse by law of kynde,
That could have gone so nere her hearte;
And this was chiefely all her payne,
She could not make the lyke agayne.

Syth Nature thus gave her the prayse,
To be the chiefest worke she wroughte;
In fayth me thynke some better wayes,
On your behalfe myghte well be soughte,
Then to compare (as you have done)
To matche the caundle with the sunne.



THE Sunne hath twyse brought forth his tender grene,
Twyse cladde the earth in lyvely lustinesse;
Ones have the wyndes the trees dyspoled clene,
And once agayne begynnes theyr cruelnesse,
Synce I have hyd under my brest the harme,
That never shall recover healthfulnesse.

The wynters hurt recovers with the warme,
The parched grene restored is with shade:
What warmth, alas! may serve for to dysarme
The frosen hart that myne in flame hath made?
What colde agayne is able to restore
My fresh grene yeares, that wither thus and fade ?
Alas! I see nothing hath hurt so sore

But Tyme, in tyme reduceth a returne:

In tyme my harme encreaseth more and more
And seemes to have my cure allwayes in scorne;
Strange kindes of death, in lyfe that I doe trye
At hand to melt, farre off in flame to burne:
And lyke as tyme lyst to my cure applye,
So doth eche place my comfort cleane refuse.
All things alive, that seeth the heavens with eye,
With cloke of night may cover, and excuse
Itself from travayle of the dayes unrest,
Save I, alas! against all others use,

That then styrre up the tormentes of my breaste,
And curse eche sterre as causer of my fate.
And when the sunne hath eke the darke opprest,
And brought the day, it doth nothing abate
The travayles of myne endless smarte and payne :
For then as one that hath the light in hate,
I wish for night more covertly to playne ;
And me withdrawe from every haunted place,
Lest by my chere my chaunce appeare to playne :
And in my mynde I measure pace by pace,
To seeke the place where I my self had lost,
That day that I was tangled in the lace,
In semyng slacke, that knitteth ever most.
But never yet the travayll of my thought
Of better state, could catche a cause to bost :
For if I founde sometime that I have sought,
Those sterres by whom I trusted of the port,
My sayles do fall, and I advaunce right nought;
As ankred fast, my sprites do all resort
To stand agazed, and sink in more and more
The deadly harme which she doth take in sport.
Lo! if I seek, how do I find my sore!
And if I flee, I cary with me styll
The venomed shaft which doth hys force restore
By hast of flight; and I may plaine my fill
Unto my self, unless this carefull song
Print in your hart some parcell of my tene.
For I, alas ! in silence all too long
Of myne olde hurt yet feele the wound but grene.
Rue on my lyfe, or else your cruel wronge
Shall well appeare, and by my death be sene.


When youth had led me halfe the race
That Cupides scourge had made me runne;
I looked back to meet the place,
From whence my weary course begunne:
And then I saw howe my desyre
Misguiding me had led the waye,
Myne eyne too greedy of theyre hyre,
Had made me lose a better prey.

For when in sighes I spent the day,
And could not cloake my grief with game;
The boyling smoke dyd still bewray,
The present heate of secret fame:
And when salt teares do bayne my breast,
Where love his pleasent traynes hath sowen,
Her beauty hath the fruytes opprest,
Ere that the buddes were spronge and blowne.
And when myne eyen dyd still pursue,
The flying chase of theyre request ;
Theyre greedy looks dyd oft renew,
The hydden wounde within my breste.
When every loke these cheekes might stayne,
From dedly pale to glowing red;
By outward signes appeared playne,
To her for helpe my hart was fled.
But all too late Love learneth me,
To paynt all kynd of colours new;
To blynd theyre eyes that else should see
My speckled chekes with Cupids hew.
And now the covert brest I clame,
That worshipt Cupide secretely;
And nourished hys sacred flame,
From whence no blairing sparkes do Aye.

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