OF THE FOLLY OF LOVING WHEN THE
SEASON OF LOVE IS PAST.
YE old mule! that think yourself so fair,
Leave off with craft your beauty to repair,
For it is time without any fable;
No man setteth now by riding in your saddle!
Too much travail so do your train appair;
Ye old mule!
With false favour though you deceive th'ayes,'
Whoso taste you shall well perceive your layes
Savoureth somewhat of a keeper's stable;
Ye must now serve to market, and to fair,
All for the burthen, for panniers a pair;
For since grey hairs ben powder'd in your sable,
The thing ye seek for, you must yourself enable
To purchase it by payment and by prayer;
Ye old mule!
THE ABUSED LOVER RESOLVETH TO
FORGET HIS UNKIND MISTRESS.
WHAT no, perdie! ye may be sure!
Think not to make me to your lure,
With words and chere so contrarying,
Sweet and sour countre-weighing,
Too much it were still to endure.
Truth is tried, where craft is in ure.2
But though ye have had my heartès cure,
I dote without ending?
What no, perdie!
1 Th'ayes:' eyes. In ure:' in use.
Though that with pain I do procure
For to forget that once was pure;
Within my heart shall still that thing
Unstable, unsure, and wavering,
Be in my mind without recure?
What no, perdie!
THE ABSENT LOVER PERSUADETH
HIMSELF THAT HIS MISTRESS WILL NOT HAVE
THE POWER TO FORSAKE HIM.
If it be so that I forsake thee,
As banished from thy company;
Yet my heart, my mind, and my affection,
Shall still remain in thy perfection,
And right as thou list so order me.
But some would say in their opinion,
Revolted is thy good intention.
I well blame thy cruelty,
But myself I say on this fashion;
'I have her heart in my possession,
And of itself cannot, perdie!
By no means love, an heartless body!'
And on my faith good is the reason,
If it be so.
THE RECURED LOVER
RENOUNCETH HIS FICKLE MISTRESS FOR HER NEW
THOU hast no faith of him that hath none,
But thou must love him needs by reason;
For as saith a proverb notable,
Each thing seeketh his semblable,'
And thou hast thine of thy condition.
Yet is it not the thing I pass on,
Nor hot nor cold is mine affection!
For since thine heart is so mutable,
Thou hast no faith.
I thought thee true without exception,
But I perceive I lacked discretion;
To fashion faith to words mutable,
Thy thought is too light and variable
To change so oft without occasion.
Thou hast no faith!
THE LOVER COMPLAINETH THE UNKIND-
NESS OF HIS LOVE.
1 My lute, awake! perform the last
Labour, that thou and I shall waste;
And end that I have now begun:
And when this song is sung and past,
My lute! be still, for I have done.
2 As to be heard where ear is none;
As lead to grave in marble stone;
My song may pierce her heart as soon.
Should we then sigh, or sing, or moan?
No, no, my lute! for I have done.
3 The rocks do not so cruelly
Repulse the waves continually,
As she my suit and affection:
So that I am past remedy;
Whereby my lute and I have done.
4 Proud of the spoil that thou hast got
Of simple hearts through Love's shot,
By whom unkind thou hast them won:
Think not he hath his bow forgot,
Although my lute and I have done.
5 Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain,
That makest but game on earnest pain;
Think not alone under the sun
Unquit to cause thy lovers plain;
Although my lute and I have done.
6 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 list, for I have done.
7 And then may chance thee to repent The time that thou hast lost and spent,
To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon: Then shalt thou know beauty but lent, And wish and want as I have done.
8 Now cease, my lute! this is the last
Labour, that thou and I shall waste;
And ended is that we begun:
Now is this song both sung and past;
My lute! be still, for I have done.
THE LOVER REJOICETH THE ENJOYING
1 ONCE, as methought, Fortune me kiss'd,
And bade me ask what I thought best,
And I should have it as me list,
Therewith to set my heart in rest.
2 I asked but my lady's heart,
To have for evermore mine own;
Then at an end were all my smart;
Then should I need no more to moan.
3 Yet for all that a stormy blast
Had overturn'd this goodly day;
And Fortune seemèd at the last
That to her promise she said nay.
4 But like as one out of despair,
To sudden hope revivèd I,
Now Fortune sheweth herself so fair,
That I content me wondrously.
5 My most desire my hand may reach,
My will is alway at my hand;
Me need not long for to beseech
Her, that hath power me to command.
6 What earthly thing more can I crave?
What would I wish more at my will?
Nothing on earth more would I have,
Save that I have, to have it still.
7 For Fortune now hath kept her promess,
In granting me my most desire:
Of my sovereign I have redress,
And I content me with my hire.
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