The Passionate Louer.
To the Tune of I Lou'd thee once Ile loue no more.
AS I sate in a pleasant shade,
vnder the arch of a thick Groue,
Where Nature had an Arbour made,
I did begin to thinke of Loue;
Me thought it was a peeuish toy,
Because Loues God was but a Boy,
and déepely vowd that in my breast
such braineles phrensies should not rest.
As I thus thought, there passed by
one séemd a Goddesse, yet a Creature,
Who did transpire me with her eye,
and wound me with her heauenly feature:
Wy heart she did so déepely wound,
That I fell senceles to the ground,
and was of sences quite bereaud,
till with her hand I vp was heaud.
But her soft hand, diuiner touch
was cause of greater miserie,
The vertue of her hand was such,
that it pierst déeper then her eye,
Her fingers are those veuomd darts
By which she pierceth tender hearts:
her eyes be shafts, and if she ayme
she doth the marke or kill, or mayme.
I gazd so long vpon her eyes,
that I was taken in a snare,
And made her captiue, and her prize,
bound in the tresses of her hayre:
As I vpon her beautie gaze,
My erring thoughtes are in a maze,
whereas they wander round about,
[...] can [...]t find a passage out.
I thought she was the soueraine cure
to salue this heart sick maladie,
Because she did the wound procure,
I thought she would be remedie:
But she vnkind denied releife,
Like a bad Surgeon lancht my greife,
and left it not as twas before,
but cared lesse, and wounded more,
The more I lookt, the worse my heart.
the more I grieue, the lesse she cares,
The more she smiles, the worse my smart,
and she doth laugh when I shed teares:
This is not Balsame for my sore,
It helpes it lesse, and paines it more,
and she may know if she be wise
I can't be curde by contraries.
Beautie is like a blasing light,
that simple fooles doe flock vnto,
Like silly Flyes to that by night.
till they themselues doe quite vndoe,
For while they dally with the Torch,
They presently themselues doe scorch,
then soone they fall, as soone they dye,
oh that I were not such a Fly.
I thought in Loue were only ioy,
continuall truce, and neuer war,
But now I sée nought but annoy,
feares and dispaires the ofspringer:
Sowe Men perchance doe Hunny finde,
If that they méet with one that's kind,
but I haue found that in this Bée
there is no swéet, but sting for mée.
The Second Part.
To the same Tune.
SHe was the white at which I shot.
but ayming wide I could not hit her
Scornes and disdaines was all I got,
she was to coy, I could not get her:
But as for her, she shot so right
That none her arrowes hinder might,
Shée is so skilfull and so quick.
That if shée shoots shée hits the prick,
Vnhappy I that face to view
whose euery looke shootes death at me,
Whose euery glance doth greiue renew,
and adde degrées to miserie:
Then let those eyes in darknesse languish,
that were my Conduit's to this anguish,
And let the Curtaines of sad night,
Debar them of the ioy of light.
O thrise vnhappy I to goe,
vnto the groue where shée was séene,
It was the cause of all my woe:
I wish that there I bad not béene,
Then let my legges waxe dry & wither,
that were my porters brought me hither
And let them fall and broken lye,
like pillars by times iniurie
When that I heard the fatall voice,
that shée pronounc't against my blisse:
My heart for very anguish stird,
and ready was pale death to kisse,
If her least word can doe such wronge:
why was shée borne with such a tongue,
And I▪ to heauens will put this suite,
that I were deafe or she were mute,
Why should dame nature make such faces,
and so adorne these heauenly creatures:
When they doe want those milder graces,
That doe adde grace vnto their features
Like to the Syrens they allure:
that no man can their Charmes indure,
And in the lookes where grace should ly:
sharpe frownes sits in and puts grace by
I thought in that soft Sattin skin,
which being toucht doth séeme to melt,
And in that brest which tempts to linne:
and rauish men when it is fealt,
There had not béene so hard a hart;
since softnes was in euery part,
Oh why should Nature make a Iewell,
to be so Louely and so Cruell:
The burning feuer of fond loue,
hath now corrupted euery part:
My legges too weake can hardly moue;
and loue hath festered to my heart,
My sinewes shrirke my hart-strings ake,
My pulses leape my ioynts doe shake:
And euery limbe and euery sence,
is plagued for my eyes offence.
Then let my soule post hence away,
And with swift flight from me be gone,
Why should it with mée longer stay:
in such a rotten mansion;
O Let it take the last farewell,
in such a house no longer dwell,
While I for grife would farther speake,
my soule flyes out my heart-strings brek
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