Melancholike humours, in verses of diuerse natures, set downe by Nich: Breton, Gent

See , and say nothing . OH my thoughts , keepe in your words , Least their passage do repent yee : Knowing , Fortune still affordes Nothing , but may discontent yee . If your Saint be like the Sunne , Sit not yee in Phoebus chaire ; Least , when once the horses runne , Yee be Dedalus his heire . If your labours well deserue , Let your silence onely grace them : And , in patience , hope preserue , That no fortune can deface them . If your friend doe growe vnkinde , Grieue , but doe not seeme to showe it . For , a patient heart shall finde Comfort , when the soule shall know it . If your trust be all betrai'd , Trie , but trust no more at all : But in soule be not dismai'd , Whatsoeuer doe befall . In your selues , your selues enclose : Keepe your secrecies vnseene : Least , when ye your selues disclose , Yee had better neuer beene . And what euer be your state , Doe not languish ouerlong : Least you finde it all too late , Sorrow be a deadly song . And be comforted in this , If your passions be concealed , Crosse , or comfort , bale , or blisse , T is the best , is not reuealed . So , my deerest thoughts , adieu , Harke whereto my soule doth call yee : Be but secret , wise , and true , Feare no euill can befall yee .

¶ What is hell ? WHAT is the place , that some do paint for hell ? A lake of horrour for the life of man . Is it not , then , the death wherein I dwell , That knowes no ioy , since first my life began ? What are the diuels ? Spirits of tormenting . What else are they , that vexe me in each vaine ? With wretched thoughts , my wofull spirit tempting , Or else perplex mee in an after-paine . What is the fire ? but , an effect of sinne , That keepes my heart in an vnkindly heat . How long shall I this life continue in ? Till true repentance mercy doe entreate , And 〈◊〉 euen at the latest breath ; Saue mee , sweet Lord , yet from the second death .

¶ Mal content . IF I desir'd vnto the world to liue , Or sought in soule to serue the golden God : If I did homage to an idole giue , Or , with the wicked , wisht to haue abode , Then well might Iustice lay her sword vpon mee , In due correction of my crooked hart : But , shall I liue , in soule thus woe begon mee , That seeke in faith to serue the better part ? Ah wretched soule , why dost thou murmur so ? It is thy crosse , and thou art borne to beare it : Through hellish griefs , thy hart to heauen must go , For patience crowne , if thou wilt liue to wear it . Then rest with this ( since faith is vertues friend ) Death ends distresse , heauen makes a happy end .

¶ A dole full passion . OH tyred heart , too full of sorrowes , In night-like daies , despairing morrowes , How canst thou thinke , so deepely greeued , To hope to liue to be relieued Good fortune hath all grace 〈◊〉〈◊〉 , And cruell care hath too much torne thee : Vnfaithfull friends do all deceiue thee , Acquaintance all vnkindly leaue thee . Beauty out of her booke doth blot thee , And loue hath vtterly forgot thee , Patience doth but to passion moue thee , While only honour liues to loue thee . Thine enemies all ill deuise thee , Thy friends but little good aduise thee : And they , who most doe duety owe thee , Doe seeme as though they doe not knowe thee . Thus pittie weepes to looke vpon thee , To see how thou art woe begon thee : And while these passions seeke to spill thee , Death but attends the houre to kill thee . And since no thoughte is comming to thee , That any way may comfort doe thee , Dispose thy thoughtes , as best may please thee ; That Heauen , of all thy Hell , may ease thee .

¶ A Testament vpon the passion . TO care , that crucifies my heart , My sighes , and sobbes , I doe bequeath , And to my sorrowes deepest smart , The latest gaspe that I doe breath . To Fortune I bequeath my folly , To giue to such as seeke her grace : To faithlesse friends , that fortune wholly , That brought mee in this heauie case . To beauty , I bequeath mine age : To loue , the hate of wit , and sense : To patience , but the cure of rage : To honour , vertues patience . Mine enemies I do forgiue : And , to my friends , I giue my loue : And wish , vngratefull hearts may liue , But like ingratitude to proue . To pitty , I bequeath my teares , To fill her eyes when they be dry : To faith , the fearelesse thoughts of feares , To giue to life , to let me die . My care , I doe bequeath to death , To cut the threades , that thoughts do spinne , And , at my latest gaspe of breath , To heauen my soule , to hell my sinne .

¶ A fantasticke solemne humour . SOVND , good reason , sound my sorrowes , Equall them with any liuing : Finde the worst of all her giuing , When she most her mischiefe borrowes . Leaue not patience all perplexed , Where no passions are appeased : But her torments neuer eased , Keepe her spirit too much vexed . Tell , oh tell the truest story , That hath long time bene described : Whereto iustly is ascribed Sorrowes pride , and death his glory . Loue bred in discretions blindnesse , Shadowes , for the sunne affecting Nothing , but nothing effecting , Shewes the crosse of Natures kindnesse . Wit , bewitcht with wanton beauty , Lost the raines of reasons bridle : And , in folly all too idle , Brake the bands of reasons duty . Time misspent in follies trifles ( With repentance sorrow feeding ) In the rules of reasons reeding , Findes them nothing else but nifles . Care , yet , seeking to recouer Indiscretions heauie losses , Found in casting vp my crosses , Sorrow only left the louer .

¶ A briefe of sorrowe . MVSE of sadnesse , neere deaths fashion , Too neere madnesse , write my passion . Paines possesse mee , sorrowes spill mee , Cares distresse mee , all would kill mee . Hopes haue faild mee , Fortune foild mee , Feares haue quaild me , all haue spoild mee . Woes haue worne mee , sighes haue soakt mee , Thoughts haue torne mee , all haue broke mee . Beauty strooke me , loue hath catcht mee , Death hath tooke mee , all dispatcht mee .

¶ A solemne sa●cy . SORROW in my heart breedeth A Cocatrices neast : Where euery young bird feedeth , Vpon my hearts vnrest . Where euery pecke they giue mee ( Which euery houre they doe ) Vnto such paine they driue mee , I knowe not what to doe . Oh broode vnhapp'ly hatched , Of such a cursed kinde , Where death and sorrowe , matched , Liue , but to kill the minde . Wordes torments are but trifles , That but conceits confounde , And Natures griefes , but nifles , Vnto the spirits wounde . They are but cares good morrowes , That passions can declare : While my hearts inward sorrowes , Are all without compare . Fortune , she seekes to sweare mee , To all may discontent me ; Yet sayes she doth forbeare mee , She doth no more torment mee . Beauty she doth retaine mee In scarce a fauours tittle : And , though she doe disdeigne mee , She thinkes my griefe too little . Loue falles into a laughing , At reasons little good , While sorrow with her quaffing , Is drunke with my heart blood . But , let her drinke , and spare not , Vntill my heart be dry : And , let loue laugh : I care not : My hope is , I shall dy . And death shall only tell My froward fortunes fashion , That nearest vnto hell , Was found the louers passion .

¶ A solemne sonnet . FORTVNE hath writ characters on my heart , As full of crosses , as the skinne can holde : Which tell of torments , tearing euery part , While death and sorrowe doe my fate vnfolde . Patience sits leaning like a pining soule , That had no heart to thinke of hopes reliefe ; While fruitlesse cares discomfort doe enroule , Within the ground of neuer ending griefe . Thoughts flie about , as all in feare confounded : Reason growne mad , with too much mal content , Loue passion-rent , to see his patience wounded , With dreadfull terrors of despaires intent : While care concludes , in comforts ouerthrowne , When death can speak , my passions shal be showne .

¶ An extreame Passion . OVT of the depth of deadly griefe , tormenting day and night , A wounded heart , and wretched soule , depriu'd of all delight , Where neuer thought of comfort came , that passion might appease , Or by the smallest sparke of hope might giue the smallest ease , Let me intreat that solemne Muse that serues but sorrowes turne , In ceasselesse sighes , and endlesse sobs , to helpe my soule to mourne . But , oh , what thought beyond al thought hath thought to think vpon , Where patience findes her greatest power in passions ouergon , That neere the doore of natures death in dolefull notes doth dwell , In horrors fits that will describe my too much figur'd hell . What want , what wrong , what care , what crosse may crucifie a hart , But , day and howre , I doe endure in all , and euery part ? Want to sustaine the bodies neede , wrong to distract the minde : Where want makes wit and reason both to goe against their kinde . Care , to deuise for comforts helpe : but so by fortune crost , As kils the heart , to cast the eye , on nought but labour lost . Desire to liue in spite of death ; yet still , in liuing , dying : And so a greater death then death , by want of dying , trying . Oh hell of hels , if euer earth such horror can afford , Where such a world of helpelesse cares doe lay the heart aboord . ' No day , no night , no thought , no dreame , but of that doleful nature , That may amaze , or sore affright a most afflicted creature . Friends turnd to foes , foes vse their force : and fortune , in her pride Shaks hands with fate , to make my soule the weight of sorrow bide . Care brings in sicknes , sicknes pain , & paine with patience passion , With biting in most bitter griefes , brings feature out of fashion : Where brawn falne cheeks , heart scalding sighs , & dimmed eyes with teares , Doe shewe , in lifes Anatomy , what burthen sorrowe beares . Where all day long , in helplesse cares , all hopelesse of reliefe , I wish for night , I might not see the obiectes of my griefe . And , when night comes , woes keep my wits in such a waking vaine , That I could wish , though to my griefe , that it were day againe . Thus , daies are nights : which nights are daies : which daies are like those nights , That to my passions sense present but only sorrows sights , Which to the eye but of the minde of misery appeare , To fill the heart of forlorne hope too full of heauie cheare . Oh hart , how canst thou hold so long , and art not broke ere this ? When all thy strings are but the straines that confort strikes amisse . Yet must thou make thy musicke still , but of that mournfull straine , Where sorrowe , in the sound of death , doth shew her sweetest vain : Or , where her Muses all consent , in their consort to trie Their sweetest musicke in desire to die , and can not die . The Pellican , that kils her selfe , her young ones for to feede , Is pleas'd to dy , that they may liue , that suck when she doth bleede ▪ But , while I in those cares consume , that would my spirit kill , Nought liues by me , when I must die , to feede but sorrowes will . The Hart , that 's hunted all day long , hath sport yet with the hounds , And happly beats off many a dogge before his deadly wounds : But my poore heart is hunted still , with such a cruell cry , As , in their dogged humours , liue , while I alone must die . The Swan that sings before her death doth shew that she is pleas'd , To knowe that death will not be long in helping the diseas'd . But my poore Swanlike soule ( alas ) hath no such power to sing , Because she knowes not when my death will make my care a king . What shall I say ? but only say ; I knowe not what to say : So many torments teare my heart , and tugge it euery way . My Sunne is turnd into a shade : or else mine eyes are blinde , That sorrowes cloude makes all seeme darke , that comes into my minde . My youth , to age : or else , because my comforts are so colde , My sorrowe makes me in conceit to be decrepit olde . My hopes to feares : or else because my fortunes are forlorne , My fancie makes me make my selfe vnto my selfe a scorne . My life , to death : or else because my heart is so perxplexed , I finde my selfe but liuing dead , to feele my soule so vexed . For , what is here that earth can yeeld in pleasures sweetest vaine , But , in the midst of all my cares , doth still increase my paine ? While Epicures are ouerglut , I ly and starue for foode , Because my conscience can not thriue vpon ill gotten good . While other swimme in choyce of silkes , I sit alone in ragges , Because I can not fitte the time , to fill the golden bagges . While other are bedeckt in golde , in pearle and pretious stone , I sigh to see they haue so much , and I can light of none . Not that I enuie their estate , but wish that God would giue Some comfort , to my carefull hope , wherby my heart might liue . Some please themselues in choyce of sports , in trifles , and in toies ▪ While my poore feeble spirit feedes , of nothing but annoyes . Some haue their houses stately built , and gorgeous to beholde , While in a cottage , bare and poore , I bide the bitter colde . Some haue their chariots and their horse to beare them to and fro , While I am glad to walke on foote , and glad I can doe so . Some haue their musickes hermony to please their idle eares , While of the song of sorrow , still , my soule the burthen beares . Some haue their choyce of all perfumes , that natures arte can giue ; While sinne doth stinke so , in my soule , as makes me loath to liue . They , like the wielders of the world , command and haue their will ; While I , a weakling in the world , am slaue to sorrow still . The Owle , that makes the night her day , delights yet in the darke : But I am forc't to play the Owle , that haue beene bred a Larke . The Eagle , from the lowest vale , can mount the lofty skie : But , I am falne downe from the hill , and in the vale must die . The Sparrow , in a Princes house , can finde a place to builde : I scarce can finde out any place , that will my comfort yeelde . The little Wrenne doth finde a worme , the little Finch a seede ; While my poore heart doth hunger still , and finds but little feede . The Bee doth finde her hony flower , the Butterflie her leafe : But I can finde a world of corne , that yeeldes not me a sheafe . The horse , the Oxe , the silly Asse , that tugge out all the day , At night come home , and take their rest , and lay their worke away ; While my poore heart , both day and night , in passions ouertoild , By ouerlabour of my braine , doth finde my spirit spoiled . The winds doe blowe away the clowds , that would obscure the Sun : And , how all glorious is the sky , when once the stormes are done ! But , in the heauen of my harts hope , where my loues light doth shine , I nothing see , but clouds of cares , or else my sunne decline . The earth is watred , smoth'd and drest , to keepe her gardens gay ; While my poore heart , in woefull thoughtes , must wither still away . The Sea is sometime at a calme , where shippes at anchor ride , And fishes , on the sunny shore , doe play on euery side : But my poore heart , in sorrowes seas , is sicke of such a qualme , As , while these stormy tempests holde , can neuer looke for calme . So that I see , each bird , and beast , the sea , the earth , the sky , All sometime in their pleasures liue , while I alone must die . Now , thinke , if all this be too true ( as would it were not so ) If any creature liue on earth , that doe like sorrow knowe . Nay , aske of sorrow , euen her selfe ; to thinke how I am wounded , If she be not , to see my woes , within her selfe confounded ; Or say , no figure can suffice , my sorrowes frame to fashion , Where patience thus hath shew'd her selfe , beyond her selfe in passion . Par nulla figura dolori , nec dolor meo .

A solemne farewell to the world . OH forlorne fancy , whereto dost thou liue , To weary out the senses with vnrest ? Hopes are but cares , that but discomforts giue , While only fooles doe clime the Phoenix nest . To heart sicke soules , all ioyes are but a iest . Thou dost in vain , but striue against the streame , With blinded eyes to see the sunny beame . Die with desire , abandond from delight . Thy weary winter lasteth all the yeare . Say to thy selfe , that darknesse is the light , Wherein doth nothing but thy death appeare ; While wit , and sense , in sorrowes heauy cheare , Findes thee an humour , but vnkindly bredde , Of hopes illusions , in too weake a head . Fortune affrightes thee with a thousand feares , While folly feedes thee with abuse of wit : And , while thy force in fainting passion weares , Patience is ready to increase the fit , Where agonies in their extreames doe sit . So that , each way , thy soule is so perplexed , As better die , then liue to be so vexed . Say , patience somewhat doe asswage thy paine ; Prolonged cures are too vncomfortable : And where that care doth neuer comfort gaine , The state , alasse , must needes be miserable . Where sorrowes labours are so lamentable , That silence saies , that to the soule complains , Concealed sorrowes are the killing paines . Then doe not ceasse to sigh , and sobbe thy fill , Bleede in the teares of true loues liuing blood , Shewe how vnkindnesse seekes the heart to kill , That hides a Buzzard in a Falcons hoode . Feede not thy selfe with misconceipted good . Better to starue , then , in a sugred pill , To taste the poison of the spirits ill . But , if thou canst content thee with thy life , And wilt endure a double death to liue , If thou canst beare that bitter kinde of strife , Where crosse conceipts but discontents do giue , If to this ende , thou canst thine humour driue , And cares true patience can command thee so , Giue mee then leaue to tell thee what I knowe . I knowe too well , that all too JOHg haue tryed , That earth containeth not that may content thee . Sorrowe will so beset thee on each side , That wit , nor reason can the thought inuent thee , But that will some way serue for to torment thee . Hope wil deceiue thee , happinesse goe by thee , Fortune will faile thee , and the world defie thee . Beauty will blinde thine eyes , bewitch thine heart , Confound thy senses , and commaund thy will , Scorne thy desire , not looke on thy desart , Disdaine thy seruice , quite thy good with ill , And make no care thy very soule to kill : Time will outgoe thee , sorrowe onertake thee , And death , a shadow of a substance , make thee . I know this world will neuer be for thee : Conscience must carry thee another way . Another world must be for thee and mee , Where happie thoughts must make their holiday , While heauenly comforts neuer will decay . We must not thinke in this ill age to thriue , Where faith and loue are scarcely found aliue . Wee must not build our houses on the sands , Where euery flood will wash them quite away : Nor set our seales vnto those wicked bands , Where damned soules their debts in hel must pay : Our states must stand vpon a better stay : Vpon the rock we must our houses builde , That wil our frames , from winde , & water shield Goe , bid the world , with all his trash , farewell , And tell the earth , it shall be all but dust : These wicked wares that worldlings buy and sell , The Moath will eate , or else the canker ruft : All flesh is grasse , and to the graue it must . This sinke of sinne , is but the way to hell , Leaue it I say , and bid the world farewell . Account of pompe , but as a shadowed power , And thinke of friends , but as the sommer flies : Esteeme of beauty as a fading flower , And louers fancies , but as fabled lies : Knowe , that on earth there is no Paradise . Who sees not heauen , is surely spirit-blinde , And like a body , that doth lacke a minde . Then , let vs lie as dead , till there wee liue , Where only loue doth liue for euer blest , And only loue the onely life doth giue , That bringes the soule vnto eternall rest . Let vs this wicked , wretched world detest , Where gracelesse hearts in hellish sins perseuer , And fly to heauen , to liue in grace for euer .

¶ A solemne conceipt . 1 DOTH loue liue in beauties eyes ? Why then are they so vnlouing ? Patience in her passion prouing : There his sorrowe chiefely lies . 2 Liues beliefe in louers hearts ? Why then are they vnbelieuing , Hourely so the spirit grieuing , With a thousand iealous smarts ? 3 Is there pleasure in loues passion ? Why then is it so vnpleasing , Heart and spirit both diseasing , Where the wits are out of fashion ? 1 No : loue sees , in beauties eyes : He hath only lost his seeing : Where in sorrowes only being , All his comfort wholly dies . 2 Faith , within the heart of loue , Fearefull of the thing it hath , Treading of a trembling path , Doth but iealousie approue . 3 In loues passion then what pleasure ? Which is but a lunacy : Where griefe , feare , and iealousie Plague the senses out of measure . Farewell then ( vnkindly ) fancy , In thy courses all too cruell : Woe , the price of such a iewell , As turnes reason to a franzy .

¶ A straunge A , B , C. TO learne the babies A , B , C , Is fit for children , not for mee . I knowe the letters all so well , I neede not learne the way to spell : And , for the crosse , before the rowe , I learn'd it all too long agoe . Then let them goe to schoole that list , To hang the lippe , at Had I wist . I neuer lou'd a booke of horne , Nor leaues , that haue their letters worne , Nor with a fescue to direct mee , Where euery puny shall correct mee . I will the treuant play a while , And , with mine eare , mine eye beguile , And only heare , what other see , What mocketh them as well as mee , And laugh at him , that goes to schoole , To learne with mee to play the foole . But soft a while : I haue mistooke . This is but some imagin'd booke , That wilfull hearts in wantons eyes , Doe onely by conceits deuise : Where spell , and put together proue The reading of the rules of loue . But , if it be so , let it be : It shall no lesson be for mee . Let them goe spell , that can not reede , And know the crosse vnto their speede ; While I am taught but to discerne , How to forget the thing I learne .

¶ Fie on pride . THE hidden pride that lurkes in beauties eyes , And ouerlookes the humble hearts of loue , Doth nothing else but vaine effectes deuise , That may discretion from the minde remoue . Oh , how it workes in wit , for idle wordes , To buy repentance but with labour lost : While sorrowes fortune nothing else affordes But showres of raine , vpon a bitter frost . A wicked shadowe that deceiues the sight , And breedes an itch , that ouerrunnes the hart : Which , leauing reason in a pitious plight , Consumes the spirit , with a curelesse smart . While wounded patience in her passion cries ; Fie vpon pride , that lurkes in beauties eyes .

¶ A farewell to loue . FAREWELL loue , and louing folly , All thy thoughts are too vnholly : Beauty strikes thee full of blindenesse , And then kils thee with vnkindnesse . Farewell wit , and witty reason , All betrai'd , by fancies treason : Loue hath of all ioy bereft thee , And to sorrow only left thee . Farewell will , and wilfull fancy , All in daunger of a franzy : Loue to beauties bowe hath wonne thee , And togither , all vndone thee . Farewell beauty , sorrowes Agent : Farewell sorrow , patience pagent : Farewell patience , passions stayer : Farewell passion , loues betrayer . Sorrowes agent , patience pagent : Passions stayer , loues betrayer , Beauty , sorrow , patience , passion , Farewell life of such a fashion . Fashion , so good fashions spilling : Passion , so with passions killing : Patience , so with sorrow wounding : Farewell beauty , loues confounding .

¶ A ieasting curse . FIE vpon that too much beauty , That so blindeth reasons seeing , As , in swearing all loues duety , Giues him , no where else , a beeing . Cursed be thou all in kindnesse , That with beauty , loue hast wounded ; Blessing loue , yet in such blindenesse , As in beautie is confounded . Euer maist thou liue tormented , With the faith of loue vnfained , Till thy heart may be contented To relieue whom thou hast pained . Thus , in wroth of so well pleased , As concealeth ioyes confessing , Till my paine be wholly eased , Cursed be thou , all in blessing . So farewell , and fairely note it ; He , who as his soule doth hate thee , From his very heart hath wrote it , Neuer euill thought come at thee .

¶ A solemne toie . IF that loue had beene a king , He would haue commanded beauty : But , hee is a silly thing , That hath sworne to doe her duety . If that loue had beene a God , He had then bene full of grace : But , how grace and loue are odde , T is too plaine a pitious case . No : loue is an idle ieast , That hath only made a woord Like vnto a Cuckoes neast , That hath neuer hatcht a bird . Then , from nothing to conceiue That may any substance bee ; Yet so many doth deceiue , Lord of heauen deliuer mee .

A displeasure against loue . LOVE is witty , but not wise , When he stares on beauties eyes , Finding wonders in conceit , That doe fall out but deceit . Wit is stable , but not staied , When his senses are betraied : Where , too late sorrow doth proue , Beauty makes a foole of loue . Youth is forward , but too fond , When he falles in Cupids bond : Where repentance lets him see , Fancy fast is neuer free . Age is cunning , but vnkinde , When he once growes Cupid-blinde . For , when beauty is vntoward , Age can neuer be but froward . So that I doe finde in briefe , In the grounds of natures griefe , Age , and youth , and wit doe proue , Beauty makes a foole of loue .

¶ A farewell to conceipt . FAREWELL conceit : Conceit no more wel fare , Hope feeds the heart with humours , to no end : Fortune is false in dealing of her share : Vertue , in heauen , must only seeke a friend . Adieu desire ▪ desire , no more adieu . Will hath no leasure to regard desart : Loue findes , too late , the prouerbe all too true , That beauties eyes stoode neuer in her heart . Away poore loue : loue , seeke no more a way Vnto thy woe , where wishing is no wealth : In nightes deepe darkenesse , neuer looke for day , Nor in hearts sicknesse , euer seeke for health . Desire , conceipt , away , adieu , farewell . Loue is deceiu'd , that seeks for heauen in hell .

An vnhappy , solemne , ieasting curse . OH venome , cursed , wicked , wretched eyes , The killing lookers on the heart of loue : Where witching beauty liues but to deuise The plague of wit , and passions hell to proue : That snowy necke , that chillest , more then snowe , Both eyes & harts , that liue but to behold thee : That graceles lip , from whence loues grief dothgrow , Who doth , in all his sweetest sense infold thee : Those chaining hairs more hard then iron chains , In tying fast the fairest thoughts of loue , Yee shameful cheeks , that in your blushing vains , The rauisht passions of the minde doe proue : Yee spider fingers of those spitefull hands , That worke but webbes , to tangle fancies eyes : That Idole breast , that like an Image stands , To worke the hell of reasons heresies : Those Fairy feete , whose chary steppes doe steale Those hearts , whose eies do but their shadowes see : That ruthlesse spirit , that may well reueale , Where loues confusions all included be : To thee , that canst , or wilt not bend thy will , To vse thy gifts all gratious in their nature , To patience good , and not to passions ill , And maist , and wilt not be a blessed creature , I wish , and pray , thine eyes may weepe for woe They cannot get one looke of thy beloued : Thy snowy necke may be as colde as snowe , With colde of feare , it hath no fancy moued . Thy lippe , in anger by thy teeth be bitten , It can not giue one kissing sweete of loue : And , by thy hands , thy shriu'led haires be smitten , For want of holding of thy hopes behoue : Thy blushing cheekes loose all their liuely blood , With pining passions of impatient thought : That Idole bodie , like a piece of wood , Consume , to see it is esteemd for nought . Those spider fingers , and those Fairy feete The crampe so crooke , that they may creepe for griefe : And , in that spirit sorrowes poisons meete , To bring on death , where loue hath no reliefe . All these , and more iust measures of amisse Vpon thy frownes , on faithfull loue , befall : But , sweetly smile , & then heauens pour their blisse On thy hairs , neck , cheeks , lip , hands , feet , & all .

¶ A quarrell with loue . OH that I could write a story Of loues dealing with affection ; How hee makes the spirit sory , That is toucht with his infection . But he doth so closely winde him , In the plaits of will ill pleased , That the heart can neuer finde him , Till it be too much diseased . T is a subtill kinde of spirit , Of a venome kinde of nature , That can , like a conny ferret , Creepe vnwares vpon a creature . Neuer eye that can beholde it , Though it worketh first by seeing ; Nor conceipt , that can vnfolde it , Though in thoughts be all his being . Oh , it maketh olde men witty , Young men wanton , women idle , While that patience weepes , for pitty Reason bitts not natures bridle . In it selfe it hath no substance , Yet is working worlds of wonder , While , in phrensies fearefull instance , Wit , and sense are put asunder . What it is , is in coniecture , Seeking much , but nothing finding : Like to fancies architecture , With illusions , reason blinding . Day and night , it neuer resteth , Mocking fancy with ill fortune , While the spirit it molesteth , That doth patience still importune . Yet , for all this , how to finde it , T is vnpossible to showe it ; When the Muse , that most doth minde it , Will be furthest off to know it . Yet can beauty so reteine it , In the profit of her seruice , That she closely can mainteine it , For her seruant chiefe in office . In her eye , she chiefely breedes it : In her cheekes , she chiefely hides it : In her seruants faith , shee feedes it , While his only heart abides it . All his humour is in changing : All his worke is in inuention : All his pleasure is in ranging : All his truthe but in intention . Straunge , in all effectes conceiued : But , in substance , nothing sounded , While the senses are deceiued , That on idle thoughts are grounded . Not to dwell vpon a trifle , That doth follies hope befall , T is but a newe nothing nifle , Made for fooles to play withall .

¶ A wish in vaine . OH , that wit were not amazed , At the wonder of his senses : Or his eyes , not ouergazed , In Mineruas excellences . Oh , that reason were not foiled , In the rules of all his learning : Or his learning were not spoiled , In the sweete of loues discerning . Oh , that beauty were not froward , In regard of reasons duety : Or , that will were not vntoward , In the waiward wit of beauty . But , since all in vaine are wishes , Patience tels them that haue past it ; Poys'ned broth , in siluer dishes , Kils their stomackes that doe taste it . Wit , and reason , loue , and learning , All in beauties eyes are blinded , Where , in sense of sweete discerning , She will be vnkindly minded . Let those hartes , whose eyes perceiue her , Triumphe , but in thoughts tormented : Labour all they can to leaue her , Or else die , and be contented .

¶ A conceipt vpon an Eagle , and a Phoenix . THERE sate sometime an Eagle on a hill , Hanging his wings , as if he could not flie : Blacke was his coate , and tauny was his bill , Grey were his legges , and gloomy was his eye , Blunted his talents , and his traine so bruised , As if his brauery had beene much abused . This foule olde birde of some vnhappy brood , That could abide no hauke of higher wing ( But fed his gorge vpon such bloody foode , As might , in feare , maintaine a cruell king ) Faire on a rocke of pearle and pretious stone , Espied a Phoenix sitting all alone . No sooner had this heauenly birde in sight , But vp he flickers , as he would haue flowne : But , all in feare , to make so farre a flight , Vntill his pennes were somewhat harder growne : He gaue a rowse , as , who should say , in rage He shew'd the fury of his froward age . And , for this Phoenix still did front his eyes , Hee cald a counsell of his kites together : With whom , in haste , he wold the mean deuise , By secret arte to leade an armie thither , And so pull downe , from place of highe estate , This heauenly bird , that he had so in hate . Much talke there was , & wondrous heede was held How to atchieue this high attempt in hand : Some out were sent to soare about the field , Where flue this grace and glory of the land , To mark her course , & how she made her wing , And how her strength might stand with such a king . And forthwith should such cages be deuised , As should enclose full many thousand fowles : By whom , her seat should quickly be surprized , And all her birds should handled be like owles : No time detract this deede must needs be don : And ere they went , the world was wholly won . But , soft a while : no sooner seene the land , But , ere they came in kenning of the coast , So great a force their fortune did withstand , That all the brauery of the birds was lost : Some leakt , some sanke , & some so ran on ground , The cages burst , and all the birds were drownd . But , when the eagle heard what was become Of all his flight , that flick'red here and there , Some sicke , some hurt , some lame , & all & summe Or farre from hope , or all too neere in feare , He stoupt his traine , and hung his head so sore , As if his heart had neuer burst before .

¶ A conceited fancy . PVRE colours can abide no staine : The sunne can neuer lose his light : And vertue hath a heauenly vaine , That well may claime a queenely right : So , giue my mistresse but her due , Who tolde mee all these tales of you . From heauen on earth , the Sunne doth shine , From vertue comes discretions loue : They both are in themselues diuine ; Yet worke for weaker hearts behoue ▪ So , would my mistresse had her due , To tell mee still these tales of you . But , oh , the Sunne is in a clowde , And vertue liues in sweetes vnseene : The earth with heauen is not allow'd , A begger must not loue a Queene : So must my mistresse haue her due , To tell mee still these tales of you . Then shine faire Sunne , when clouds are gon : Liue vertue in thy queenely loue : Choose some such place to shine vpon , As may thy Paradise approue ; That , when my mistresse hath her due , I may heare all this heauen in you .

¶ A smile misconstrued . BY your leaue , a little while : Loue hath got a beauties smile , From on earth , the fairest face : But , he may be much deceiued , Kindenesse may be misconceiued , Laughing , oft , is in disgrace . Oh , but he doth knowe her nature , And to be that blessed creature , That doth answere loue with kindnesse . Tush , the Phoenix is a fable , Phoebus horses haue no stable : Loue is often full of blindnesse . Oh , but he doth heare her voice : Which doth make his heart reioyce , With the sweetenesse of her sounde . Simple hope may be abused . Heares he not he is refused ? Which may giue his heart a wound . No : loue can belieue it neuer . Beauty fauours once , and euer , Though proud enuie play the elfe : Truthe , and patience haue approued Loue shall euer be beloued , If my mistresse be her selfe .

¶ An odde humour . PVRELY faire , and fairely wise , Blessed wit , and blessed eyes , Blessed wise , and blessed faire , Neuer may thy blisse impaire . Kindely true , and truly kinde , Blessed heart , and blessed minde , Blessed kind , and blessed true , Euer may thy blisse renue . Sweetely deare , and dearely sweete , Blessed , where these blessings meete : Blessed meetings neuer cease , Euer may thy blisse encrease . Blessed beauty , wit , and sense , Blest , in natures excellence , Where all blessinges perish neuer , Blessed maist thou liue for euer .

¶ Awaggery . CHILDRENS ahs , and womens ohs Doe a wondrous griefe disclose : Where a dugge the tone will still , And the tother but a will . Then , in gods name , let them cry . While they cry , they will not die . For , but fewe that are so curst , As to cry , vntill they burst . Say , some children are vntoward : So some women are as froward : Let them cry them , 't will not kill them : There is time enough to still them . But , if pitty will be pleased To relieue the small diseased , When the helpe is once applying , They will quickly leaue their crying . Let the childe then sucke his fill , Let the woman haue her will , All will hush , was hearde before : Ah , and oh , will cry no more .

¶ An odde conceipt . LOVELY kinde , and kindly louing , Such a minde were worth the mouing : Truly faire , and fairely true , Where are all these , but in you ? Wisely kinde , and kindely wise , Blessed life , where such loue lies . Wise , and kinde , and faire , and true , Louely liue all these in you . Sweetely deare , and dearely sweete , Blessed where these blessings meete . Sweete , faire , wise , kinde , blessed , true , Blessed be all these in you .

¶ A dolefull fancy . SORROW rippe vp all thy senses , Neerest vnto horrors nature : Taste of all thy quintessences , That may kill a wretched creature . Then , beholde my wofull spirit , All in passions ouerthrowne : And , full closely , like a ferret , Seize vpon it for thine owne . But , if thou doe growe dismaid , When thou dost but looke on mee , When my passions well displaid , Will but make a blast of thee , Then in griefe of thy disgraces , Where my fortunes doe deface thee , Tell thy Muses to their faces , They may learne of mee to grace thee . For , thy sighes , thy sobbes , and teares But thy common badges beene : While the paine the spirit beares , Eates away the heart vnseene . Where , in silence swallowed vp Are the sighes and teares of loue , Which are drawne to fill the cuppe Must be drunke to deaths behoue . Then beholding my hearts swoune , In my torments more and more , Say , when thou dost sit thee downe , Thou wert neuer grac't before .

¶ An Epitaph vpon Poet Spencer . MOVRNFVLL Muses , sorrowes minions , Dwelling in despaires opinions , Yee that neuer thought inuented , How a heart may be contented ( But in torments all distressed , Hopelesse how to be redressed , All with howling and with crying , Liue in a contiuuall dying ) Sing a Dirge on Spencers death , Till your soules be out of breath . Bidde the Dunces keepe their dennes , And the Poets breake their pennes : Bidde the Sheepheards shed their teares , And the Nymphes go teare their haires : Bidde the Schollers leaue their reeding , And prepare their hearts to bleeding : Bidde the valiant and the wise , Full of sorrowes fill their eyes ; All for griefe , that he is gone , Who did grace them euery one . Fairy Queene , shew fairest Queene , How her faire in thee is seene . Sheepeheards Calender set downe , How to figure best a clowne . As for Mother Hubberts tale , Cracke the nut , and take the shale : And for other workes of worth , ( All too good to wander forth ) Grieue that euer you were wrot , And your Author be forgot . Farewell Arte of Poetry , Scorning idle foolery : Farewell true conceited reason , Where was neuer thought of treason : Farewell iudgement with inuention , To describe a hearts intention : Farewell wit , whose sound and sense Shewe a Poets excellence : Farewell all in one togither , And , with Spencers garland , wither . And , if any Graces liue , That will vertue honour giue , Let them shewe their true affection , In the depth of griefes perfection , In describing forth her glory , When she is most deepely sory ; That they all may wish to heere , Such a song , and such a quier , As , with all the woes they haue , Follow Spencer to his graue .

FINIS .