Do now thy heavenly cunning use And in a dream bewray friend; What fate shall be my Whether my life shall still decay, Or when my sorrows end. A QUARREL WITH LOVE. [From his Melancholick Humours.] OH that I could write a story Of love's dealing with affection! How he makes the spirit sorry That is touch'd with his infection. But he doth so closely wind him, Tis a subtle kind or spirit, Of a venom-kind of nature, That can, like a coney-ferret, Creep un-wares upon a creature. Never eye that can behold it, Oh! it maketh old men witty, What it is, in conjecture; Seeking much, but nothing finding; Like to fancy's architecture, With illusions reason blinding. Yet, can beauty so retain it, In her eye she chiefly breeds it; While his only heart abides it. ON THE DEATH OF SPENSER. MOURNFUL Muses, sorrow's minions, Ye, that never thought invented Sing a dirge on Spenser's death, Bid the dunces keep their dens, Bid the valiant and the wise Full of sorrows fill their eyes; All for grief that he is gone Farewel, art of poetry, Scorning idle foolery; Farewel, true-conceited reason, Farewel, all in one together, And with Spenser's garland wither. A sweet Contention between Love, his Mistress, and Beauty. Love and my mistress were at strife She said, she did it with her eye; "Tis I that have the wounded heart. She said, she only spake the word That did enchant my peering sense; He said, he only gave the sound She said, her beauty was the mark She said, that, only for her sake, The best would venture life and limb: He said, she was too much deceiv'd; They honour'd her, because of him. Long while, alas, she would not yield, If he were gone, her joy was lost. And then she cried "Oh, dainty love, "And thou hast power to conquer But, when I heard her yield to love, me." Oh! how my heart did leap for joy! That now I had some little hope To have an end to mine annoy! VOL. II. |