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Though for good-will I find but hate, And Cruelty my life to waste,

And though that ftill a wretched ftate, Should pine my days unto the last, Yet I profefs it willingly,

To ferve and fuffer patiently.

There is no grief, no smart, no woe, That yet I feel, or after shall,

That from this mind may make me go;
And, whatfoever me befal,

I do profefs it willingly,
To serve and suffer patiently.

My Lute awake, perform the last
Labour that thou and I fhall wafte,
And end that I have now begun :
And when this fong is fung and past,
My lute be ftill, for I have done.

The rocks do not fo cruelly
Repulfe the waves continually,
As the my fuit and affection:
So that I am paft remedy,
Whereby my lute and I have done.

Proud of the spoil which thou haft got Of fimple Hearts through Love's shot,

By whom (unkind!) thou haft them won Think not he hath his bow forgot, Although my lute and I have done.

Vengeance shall fall on thy difdain
That makeft but game on earnest pain:
Think not alone under the Sun
Unquit to cause thy Lover's plaine,
Although my lute and I have done.

May chance thee lie withered and old
In winter nights that are so cold,
Plaining in vain unto the moon;
Thy wishes then dare not be told,
Care then who lift, for I have done.

And then may chance thee to repent The time that thou haft loft and fspent, To cause thy Lover's figh and swoon; Then fhalt thou know beauty but lent, And wish and want as I have done,

Now ceafe my lute: this is the last
Labour that thou and I fhall waste,
And ended is that we begun;
Now is this Song both fung and past,
My lute be ftill, for I have done.



ADIEU defert, how art thou fpent!
Ah dropping tears how do ye wafte,
Ah fcalding fighs how be ye spent,
To prick them forth that will not haste!
Ah pained heart thou gap'ft for grace
Even there where pity hath no place.

As eafy 'tis the ftony rock

From place to place for to remove,
As by thy plaint for to provoke
A frozen heart from hate to love:
What should I fay! fuch is thy lot
To fawn on them that force thee not.

Thus may'ft thou fafely fay and fwear
That rigour reigns where truth doth fail,
In thankless thoughts thy thoughts do wear,
Thy truth thy faith may not avail
For thy good-will. Why shouldft thou so
Still graft where grace it will not grow?

Alas poor heart, thus haft thou spent
Thy flowering time, thy pleafant years?
With fighing voice weep and lament,
For of thy Hope no fruit appears,
Thy true meaning is paid with Scorn
That ever foweth and reapeth no Corn.

And when thou seek'ft a quiet part

Thou doft but weigh against the Wind; For where thou gladdeft wouldft refort There is no place for thee affign'd; Thy deftiny hath fet it fo

That thy true heart should cause thy woe.

GIVE place, ye Ladies, and be gone,
Boaft not yourselves at all;
For here at hand approacheth one
Whose face will stain you all.

The virtue of her lively looks
Excels the precious stone,

I wish to have none other books
To read or look upon.

In each of her two crystal eyes
Smileth a naked boy;

It would you all in heart fuffice
To fee that lamp of joy.

I think Nature hath loft the mould

Where the her shape did take;

Or elfe I doubt if Nature could

So fair a creature make.

She may be well compared

Unto the Phenix kind,

Whofe like was never feen or heard,

That any man can find.

In life fhe is Diana chafte,

In truth Penelope,

In word and eke in deed ftedfaft,
What will you more we say?
Her rofeal colour comes and goes
With fuch a comely grace,

More ruddier too than doth the rose
Within her lively face;

At Bacchus' feaft none fhall her meet,
Ne at no wanton play;

Nor gazing in an open street,
Nor gadding as aftray.

The modeft mirth that she doth use,
Is mix'd with fhamefaftnefs;
All vice she doth wholly refuse,
And hateth Idlenefs.

O Lord, it is a world to fee
How Virtue can repair
And deck in her fuch honefty

Whom Nature made fo fair.
Truly the doth as far exceed
Our women now-a-days

As doth the Gilly-flow'r a weed,
And more a thousand ways.

How might I do to get a graff
Of this unfpotted tree?
For all the reft are plain but chaff
Which feem good corn to be.
This gift alone I shall her give,

When death doth what he can Her honeft fame fhall ever live

Within the mouth of man.

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