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A lily pale, with damask die to grace her,
None fairer, nor none falser to deface her.

Her lips to mine how often hath she join❜d, Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing! How many tales to please me hath she coin'd, Dreading my love, the loss thereof still fearing! Yet in the midst of all her pure protestings, Her faith, her oaths, her tears and all were jestings.

She burn'd with love, as straw with fire flameth,
She burn'd out love, as soon as straw out burneth;
She fram'd the love, and yet she foil'd the framing,
She bade love last, and yet she fell a turning.

Was this a lover, or a lecher whether?
Bad in the best, though excellent in neither.


Did not the heavenly rhetorick of thine eye,
'Gainst whom the world could not hold argument,
Persuade my heart to this false perjury?
Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment.
A woman I forswore; but I will prove,
Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee:
My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love;
Thy grace being gain'd, cures all disgrace in me.
My vow was breath, and breath a vapour is;
Then thou fair sun, that on this earth doth shine,
Exhale this vapour vow; in thee it is:
If broken, then it is no fault of mine.

If by me broke, what fool is not so wise
To break an oath, to win a paradise?


If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love? O never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow'd: Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll constant prove; [bow'd. Those thoughts, to me like oaks, to thee like osiers Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes, Where all those pleasures live, that art can comprehend. [suffice; If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend ;

All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder; Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire :

Thine eye Jove's lightning seems, thy voice his dreadful thunder,

Which (not to anger bent) is musick and sweet fire. Celestial as thou art, O do not love that wrong, To sing the heavens' praise with such an earthly tongue.


Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good,
A shining gloss, that vadeth suddenly;

A flower that dies, when first it 'gins to bud:

A brittle glass, that's broken presently:

A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,
Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an hour.

And as goods lost are seld or never found,
As vaded gloss no rubbing will refresh,
As flowers dead, lie wither'd on the ground,
As broken glass no cement can redress,

So beauty blemish'd once, for ever's lost,
In spite of physick, painting, pain, and cost.


Good night, good rest. Ah! neither be
She bade good night, that kept my rest away;
And daff'd 3 me to a cabin hang'd with care,
To descant on the doubts of my decay.

Farewell, quoth she, and come again to-morrow;
Fare well I could not, for I supp'd with sorrow.

Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile, In scorn or friendship, nill I construe whether : 'T may be, she joy'd to jest at my exile, 'T may be, again to make me wander thither : Wander, a word for shadows like myself, As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf


Lord, how mine eyes throw gazes to the east! My heart doth charge the watch; the morning rise

Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest.

duff'd] i. e. put off.


Not daring trust the office of mine eyes,
While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark,
And wish her lays were tuned like the lark;

For she doth welcome day-light with her ditty,
And drives away dark dismal-dreaming night :
The night so pack'd, I post unto my pretty;
Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight;
Sorrow chang'd to solace, solace mix'd with
For why? she sigh'd, and bade me come to-


Were I with her, the night would post too soon;
But now are minutes added to the hours;
To spite me now, each minute seems a moon;
Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers!

Pack night, peep day; good day, of night now
Short, night, to-night, and length thyself to-


It was a lording's daughter, the fairest one of three,

That liked of her master as well as well might be, Till looking on an Englishman, the fairest that eye could see,

Her fancy fell a turning.

a moon] i. e. a month, Steevens's conjecture for the reading of the old copy, "an hour."

Long was the combat doubtful, that love with love did fight,

To leave the master loveless, or kill the gallant knight:

To put in practice either, alas it was a spite
Unto the silly damsel.

But one must be refused, more mickle was the pain,
That nothing could be used, to turn them both to
[disdain :
For of the two the trusty knight was wounded with
Alas, she could not help it!
Thus art with arms contending was victor of the
Which by a gift of learning did bear the maid
Then lullaby, the learned man hath got the lady
For now my song is ended.



On a day (alack the day!)
Love, whose month was ever May,
Spy'd a blossom passing fair,
Playing in the wanton air:
Through the velvet leaves the wind,
All unseen, 'gan passage find;
That the lover, sick to death,
Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!
But alas my hand hath sworn
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:

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