Enemy to youth, that most may I bewaille;
Ah bitter fwete! infecting as the poyfon,
Thou fareft as frute, that with the froft is taken,
To day redy ripe, to morow al to fhaken.

A Complaint by night of the Lover not Beloved.

ALAS! fo al thinges now doe holde theire peace, Heaven and earth disturbed in nothing;

The beaftes, the ayer, the birdes their fonge doe leafe,

The nightes chare the stares aboute doth bringe:
Calme is the fea, the waues worke leffe and leffe.
So am not I, whome Love alas doth wring,
Bringing before my face the great encrease
Of my defires, whereas I wepe and fing,
In joy and wo, as in a doubtful cafe,
For my fwete thoughts, fome tyme doe pleasure
bring;

But by and by, the caufe of my disease,
Geves me a pang, that inwardly doth flinge;
When that I thinke what grief it is againe,
To live and lacke the thing fhould ridde my pain.

How eche thing, fave the Lover in Spring, Reinueth to

pleasure.

WHEN Windfor walles fufteined my wearied arme,
My hande, my chin, to cafe my reft!efle hed,
The pleafant plot reuefted green with warme,
'The bloffomd bowes with lufty Ver yfpred:
The floured meades, the wedded byrdes fo late,
Myne eyes difcouer, and to my mynde reforte
The ioly woes, the hateleffe fhort debate,
The rakehell lyfe, that longes to loues difporte,
Wherewith, alas, the heavy charge of care
Heapt in my breft, breakes fourth agaynft my wyll,
In fmoky fightes that ouercaft the ayre,
My vapor'd eyes fuch drearly teares dyflill.
The tender fpring whiche quicken, where they fall,

And I halfe bent to throwe me downe withall.

A lowe to love faithfully borfocuer be be rewarded,

SIT me whereas the fonne doth parch the grene,
Or where his beams do not dyffolve the yfe,
In temperate heat, where he is felt, and fene,
In prefence preft of people, madde, or wife;
Set me in hye, or yet in lowe degree,
In longest night, or in the fhortest day;
In clearest skye, or where cloudes thickest be,
In luity youth, or when my hears are grave:
Set me in heaven, in earth, or elfe in hell,
In hyll or dale, or in the foaming Bood;
Thrall, or at large, alyve where do I dwell,
Sicke, or in helthe, in evyll fame or good;
ders will
e, and only with this thought,
If, althoug my chaune be nought.

Central my fe

Complaint that bys Lady after foe k ew of ¿ys Love, kept her face always bydden from bym.

I NEVER fawe my Lady laye apart,
Her cornet blacke, in colde nor yet in heate,
Sith fyrt the knew my griefe was groven fo greate,
Whyche other fancies dry veth from my harte
That to my felfe I do the thought referve,
The whyche unwares dyd wound my woeful breft,
But on her face myne eyes mought never rest:
Yet fynce the knew I dyd her love and ferve,
Her

golden treffes cladde allway with blacke;
Her fmyleyng lookes that had thus evermore,
And that reftraynes which I defire so fore:
So doth this cornet governe, me alacke!
In fummer fun, in winters breathe, a froste,
Wherebye t'. lyghte of her fayre lookes I lost.

Request to bys Love to ioyne Bountie with Beauty.

The golden gyft that Nature dyd thee geve,
To falten frendes and feed them at thy will;
With fourne and favour, taught me to believe,
How thou arte made to thowe her greatest skylle:
Whofe hydden vertues are not fo unknowen,
But lyvely dames myghte gather at the fyrste;
Where beauty fe her perfe&te feede hath fewen,
Of all other graces follow, nedes, there must.
Now certes Ladie, fynce all thys is true,
That from above thy gyftes are thus elect;
Do not deface them than wyth fanfies newe.
Nor chaunge of myndes let not the myude infect:
But mercy hyme thy frende, that doth thee ferve,
Who feekes always thyne honour to prefer ve.

Prifoner in Windfor, be recounteth bis plenfure there paffed.

As proude Windfor: Where I in luft and joy,
So cruell prifon howe could betyde, alas!
Wythe a kyngestoure, my chyldyfh yeres dyd passe,
In greater feat, than Priams fonnes of Troye :
Where eche fwere place returnes a taftfull fower:
The large grene where we were wont to trove,
Wyth eyes cait up into the Maydens tower,
And caly fighes, fuch as folkes draw in Love:
The ftately feates, the ladies brighte of hewe;
The daunces fhort, long takes of greate delight
Wyth woordes and lookes, that tygers could but

rewe,

Where eche of us dyd pleade the others ryghte.
The palme play, where defpoyled for the game,
With cared eyes oft we by gleames of love,
Have myft the ball, and gote fighte of our dame
To bayte her eyes, whyche kept the leads above
The gravel grounde, wythe fleves tyde on the
heln:e
[hartes;

On fom yng horfe, with fwordes and frendly
Wythe chere as though one thould another whelme
Where we have fought, and chafed oft wyth dartes.

In actives games of nimbleness and strength, Where we did strayne trayned with swarmes of youthe

Our tender limmes, that yet fhot up in lengthe.
The fecrete groves which oft we made refounde,
Of pleasant playnte, and of our Ladies prayfe,
Recordyng oft what grace eche one had founde,
What hope of fpede, what dreade of long delayes.
The wylde forreft, the clothed holes with grene,
With raynes availed and swiftly breathed horse;
Wyth cry of houndes and merry blaftes betwene,
Where we did chase the feareful harte of force.
The wyde vales eke, that harborde us eche
nyghte,

Wherewyth, (alas) reviveth in my brefte;
The fwete accorde, fuch flepes as yet delyt,
The pleafant dreames the quyet bed of rest;
The fecrot thoughtes imparted with such truft,
The wanton talke, the dyvers chaunge of playe;
The friendship fworne, eche promise kept so fast,
Wherewith we paft the winter nyghte away.
And wyth thys thoughte, the bloud forfakes the
face,

The teares berayne my chekes of deadly hewe,
The whyche as foone as fobbyng fighes, (alas!)
Upfupped have, thus, I my playnt renewe:
O place of bliffe! repewer of my woes!
Give me accompt where is my noble fere,
Whom in thy walles thou doeft eche nyghte en-
clofe,

To other lufe, but unto me moft clere :
Eccho (alas!) that doth my sorrow rewe,
Returns thereto a hollowe founde of playnt;
Thus I alone, where all my freedome grewe,
In pryfon pyne, withe bondage and reftraynt:
And with remembrance of the greater griefe,
To banish the leffe 1 fynd my chief reliefe.

Complaint of the absence of her Lover being upon
the feas.

O Happy dames that may embrace,'
The fruite of your delyghte;
Help to bewayle the woefull cafe,
And eke the heavy plyghte
Of me that wonted to reioyce,
The fortune of my pleasant choice:
Good ladyes helpe to fill my mourning voice.
In fhippe freighte wythe remembraunce
Of thoughtes and pleasures past,
He fayles that hath govèrnaunce;
My life while it will laft.

With scalding fighes for lacke of gale,
Furderyng hys hope that is his fayle,
Toward me, the fwete port of hys avayle.
Alas! how oft in dreams I fee
Thofe eyes that were my foode,
Whych fometyme fo delyted me
That yet they do me goode :

Wherewith I wak wythe his returne,
Whofe abfent flame dyd make me burn,
But when I fynde the lacke, Lord, how I mourne!
When other lovers in armes acroffe,
Reioyce their encchyfe delyght;
Drowned in teares to mourne my loffe
I ftand the bytter nyghte

In my window where I may fee

Before the wyndes how the cloudes flee

of bys Love.

WHEN rageyng love wyth extreme payne,
Moft cruelly diaraynes my harte;
When that my teares as floudes of rayne,
Bear witnefs of my wofull fmarte;
When fighes have wafted fo my breathe
That I lye at the poynt of deathe.

I call to mynde the navy greate,
That the Greekes brought to Troy towne,
And how the boyfterous wyndes dyde beate
Theyre hippes, and rent thayre fayles adowne;
Tyli Agamemnons daughters bloode,
Appeafed the goddess that them withstood:
And how that in thole ten years warre,
Full many a bloody dede was done;
And many a Lorde that came full farre,
There caughte his bane (alas!) too foone:
And many a good knyghte overcome,
Before the Grekes had Helenne wenne.
Then think I thus fith fuch repayre,
So long tyme warre of valiant menne,

And in grene waves when the falt floode
Doth ryfe by rage of wynde,

A thousand fanfies in that mood
Affayle my reftleffe mynde:
Alas! how drencheth my fwet fo
That wyth the fpoyle of my hart did go,
And left me, (but alas!) why did he fo?
And when the feas were calme agayne,
To chace from me annoye,

My doubtful hope doth cause my playne,
So drede cuts of my loye.

Thus in my wealth myngled with woe, And of eche thought a doubt doth growe Now he comes! will he come? alas! no!

them playne:

In myfty morning darke, as shepe are then in holde,

I hyde me faft, it fat me on, my fhepe for to unfolde.

And as it is a thynge that lovers have by fyttes, Under a palme I heard one cry, as he had loft hys wittes.

Whofe voice did ringe fo fhryll in utterynge of hys playnt,

That I amazed was to heare, how love coulde hym attaynt,

Ah! wretched man (quod he) come death and ryd thys woe;

A iuft reward, a happy end, if it may chaunce thee foe.

Thy pleasures paft, have wrought thy woe without redreffe;

If thou hadft never felt no ioy, thy smart had been the leffe.

And rechleffe of hys lyfe, he gan both figh and

Come hye thee faft at ones, and prynt it in thy hart,

So thou shall know, and I shall tell, thy gyltlesse how I fmart.

Hys backe agaynite the tree fore feebled all wythe faynte

Wyth weary sprite, he ftretcht hym up, and thus he told hys plaint:

Once in my harte (quod he) it chaunced me to love

Such one in whome hath nature wrought her cunning for to prove :

And fure I cannot fay but many yeres were spent, With fuch good will fo recompenft, as both we

And for my just excuse avayleth no defence: Now knoweft thou all, I can no more, but shepheard hye thee hence; [lyve, And gave him leave to dye, that may no longer Whofe record to I claime to have, my death I do forgeve;

And eke when I am gone, be bold to speake it playne,

Thou haft feen dye the trueft man that ever love dyd payne.

Wherewith he turnde hym rounde, and gasping oft for breath,

Into his armes a tree he caught, and fayd welcome my death

Welcome a thousand fold, now dearer unto me Than fhould without her love to live, an empe

Whofe death when I beheld, no marvel was it For pitic though my heart dyd blede, to fee fo piteous fight.

My bloud from heate to cold oft chaunged wonders fore,

[before: A thousand troubles there I found I never knew Twene dreade and dolour, so my fpretes were brought in feare,

That long it was cre I could call to minde, what I dyd there.

But as eche thing hath ende, so had these paynes of myne,

The furies paft, and I my wittes reflorde by length of tyme:

Then as I could devyfe, to feek I thought it be, Where I might finde fome worthy place for fuch a corps to reft:

other would require :

[myne,

can well define.

be true or no :

Sometimes the roaring feas, me femes do grow fo hye,

That my deare Lord, ay me, alas! methinkes I fee him dye.

An other time the fame doth tell me he is come, And playing, where I fhall hym finde with his faire little fonne.

So fourth I goe apace to fee that lefesome fight, And with a kyffe, methinke I fay welcome my lord my knight,

Welcome my fwete, alas, the stay of my welfare, Thy prefence bringeth forth a truce atwixt me and my care:

Then lively doth he look, and falveth me agayne, And fayth my dere how is it now that you have all this payne? [breft,

Wherewith the heavy cares that heapt are in my Breake fourth and me dischargen clene of all my huge unreft.

compare their ladies with bis.

GIVE place ye lovers here before,
That spent your boaftes and bragges in vain,
My ladies beuty paffeth more,
The best of yours I dare well fayne,
Then doth the funne the caundle lyght,
Or bryghteft day the darkest nyght,
And thereto hath a troth as just,
As had Penelope the fayre,
For what the fayeth ye may it trust,
As it by wrytyng fealed were:
And virtues hath fhe many moe,
Than I wyth pen have skill to shoe.
I could reherfe if that I would,
The whole effecte of natures playnt,
When she had loft the perfecte moulde,
The like to whome the could not paynte:
With wringeing hands, how the did cry,
And what the faid, I know it, I.

I knowe the fwore with rageing mynde,
Her kyngdome only fet apart;
There was no loffe by law of kynde.
That could have gone fo nere her hearte;
And this was chiefely all her payne.
She could not make the lyke agayne.
Syth nature thus gave her the prayse,
To be the chiefeft worke fhe wroughte;
In fayth me thynke some better ways,
On your behalfe myghte well be soughte.
Then to compare (as you have done)
To matche the candle withe the funne.

To a Ladie that fkorned ber Lover.

ALTHOUGH I have a checke,
To geve the mate is harde;
For I have found a necke,
To keep my men in garde.

And you that hardy are,
To geve fo great affaye
Unto a man of warre
To dryve hys men away:
I nede you take good hede,
And marke this foolyfh verfe;
For I wyll fo provyde,
That I wyll have you ferce.
And when your ferce is had,
And all your warre is done,
Then fhall yourself be glad,
To end that you begonne.
For if by chaunce I winne,
Your personne in the feilde,
To late then you come in
Your felfe to me to yelde.
For I will ufe my power,
As captayne full of myghte;
And fuch I will devoure,
As ufe to fhew my spyghte.
And for because you gave
Me cheke in your degree;
This vantage lo I have,

Now check and guarde to thee:
Defend it if thou may,
Stand ftyffe in thyne eftate;
For fure 1 will affay,

If I can geve the mate.

I fee (what woulde you more) ftode never man fe fure,

On womans woord, but wisedome would inftru&t it to endure.

The forfaken Lover defcribeth, and forfake:b Love.

O Lothfome place where I,
Have feene and heard my dere;
When in my hart her eye,
Hath made her thought appere.
By glinfing with such grace,
As fortune it ne woulde
That laften any space,
Between us longer fhoulde.
As fortune did advance,
To further my defire,

Even fo hath fortunes chaunce,
Throwen all ammiddes the myre.
And that I have deferved,
With true and faithfull hart;

As to his handes referved,
That never felt the smart.
But happy is that man,
That fcapeth hath the griefe,
That love will feek him can,
By wanting his reliefe.

A fcourge to quiet myndes,
It is who taketh hede;
A common plague that byndes
A travell without mede.
This gift it hath also,
Who fo enjoyes it most,
A thousand troubles grow,
Yo vex his wearied ghoft.
And laft it may not long,
The truest thynge of all;
And fure the greatest wronge,
That is within thys thrall.
But fince thou defert place,
Canft give me no accompte;
Of my defyred grace,
That I to have was wont:
Farewell! thou haft me taughte,
To thinke me not the fyrfte,
That love hathe fet a loft,
And caften in the dust.

The Lover defcribes bis reftieffe Eflate.

As ofte as I beholde and se,
The foveraigne beautie that me bounde,
The nier my comforte is to me,
Alas! the frefher is my wound.
As flame doth quench by rage of fire,
And running ftremes confumes by raine;
So doth the fight that I defire,
Appcafe my griefe and deadly paine.
Firt when I faw thofe chryftal ftremes,
Whofe beauty made my mortall woundes,
I little thoughte within her beames,
So fwete a venom to be founde,