10 Such fire, and such heat, You best obtain Too good speed, and too great. Whoso doeth plain You best do feign, Such fire, and such heat. Who now doth slander Love? DESPAIR COUNSELLETH THE DESERTED LOVER TO END HIS WOES BY DEATH, BUT REASON BRINGETH COMFORT. 1 Most wretched heart! most miserable, Since thy comfort is from thee fled; Since all thy truth is turn'd to fable Most wretched heart! why art thou not dead? 2 'No! no! I live, and must do still; Whereof I thank God, and no mo; For I myself have at my will, And he is wretched that weens him so' 3 But yet thou hast both had and lost The hope, so long that hath thee fed, And all thy travail, and thy cost; Most wretched heart! why art thou not dead? 4 Some other hope must feed me new: If I have lost, I say what tho!' Despair shall not therewith ensue; For he is wretched that weens him so.' 5 The sun, the moon doth frown on thee; Thou hast darkness in daylight stead: As good in grave, as so to be; Most wretched heart! why art thou not dead? 6 'Some pleasant star may show me light; But though the heaven would work me woe, Who hath himself shall stand upright; And he is wretched that weens him so.' 7 Hath he himself that is not sure? His trust is like as he hath sped. Against the stream thou mayst not dure; Most wretched heart! why art thou not dead? 8 The last is worst: who fears not that He hath himself whereso he go: And he that knoweth what is what, Saith he is wretched that weens him so.' 9 Seest thou not how they whet their teeth, Which to touch thee sometime did dread? They find comfort, for thy mischief, Most wretched heart! why art thou not dead? 1 Tho:' although. 10 'What though that curs do fall by kind For he is wretched that weens him so.' 11 Yet can it not be then denied, 12 Unhappy; but no wretch therefore! THE LOVER'S LUTE CANNOT BE BLAMED THOUGH IT SING OF HIS LADY'S UNKINDNESS. 1 BLAME not my Lute! for he must sound For lack of wit the Lute is bound 2 My Lute, alas! doth not offend, Though that perforce he must agree Blame not my Lute! 3 My Lute and strings may not deny, 4 Spite asketh spite, and changing change, 5 Blame but thyself that hast misdone, And well deserved to have blame; Change thou thy way, so evil begone, And then my Lute shall sound that same; But if till then my fingers play, By thy desert their wonted way, Blame not my Lute! 6 Farewell! unknown; for though thou break Blame not my Lute! THE NEGLECTED LOVER CALLETH ON HIS PEN TO RECORD THE UNGENTLE 1 My pen! take pain a little space 2 Remember oft thou hast me eased, And yet, my pen! thou canst no more. 3 A time thou had'st as other have As good leave off and write no more. 4 In worth to use another way; My pen! yet write a little more. 5 To love in vain, who ever shall, As in like case I find; wherefore |