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

And though that still a wretched state,
Should pine my days unto the laft,
Yet I profefs it willingly,

To ferve and fuffer patiently.

There is no grief, no smart, no woe,
I feel, or after fhall,

That

yet

That from this mind may make me go;

And, whatsoever me befal,

I do profefs it willingly,
To ferve and fuffer patiently.

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

The rocks do not fo cruelly
Repulse the waves continually,
As fhe my fuit and affection:
So that I am past 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 disdain
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 spent,
To cause thy Lover's figh and swoon;
Then fhalt thou know beauty but lent,
And with and want as I have done.

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

ANONYMOUS.

O D E.

ADIEU defert, how art thou spent!
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 fo
Still graft where grace it will not grow?

Alas poor heart, thus haft thou spent
Thy flowering time, thy pleasant 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'st 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

Whofe face will stain

you

all.

The virtue of her lively looks

Excels the precious ftone,

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,

Whose like was never seen or heard,

That any man can find.

In life she is Diana chaste,

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 shall her meet,
Ne at no wanton play;

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

The modeft mirth that she doth ufe,
Is mix'd with shamefastness;
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 fhe 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 unspotted tree?
For all the reft are plain but chaff
Which feem good corn to be.
This gift alone I fhall her give,

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

Within the mouth of man.