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hath his cave,
At all times as they list.
The owl, with feeble sight,
Lies lurking in the leaves ; The sparrow,
in the frosty night, May shroud her in the eaves.
But, woe to me, alas !
In sun, nor yet in shade,
My burthen to unlade.
The Lover, that once disdained love, is now become
subject, being caught in his snare. [The couplet printed in italics, is said to have been written
by Queen Mary, on a window of Fotheringay Castle.)
To this my song give ear who list,
And mine intent judge as you will; The time is come that I have miss'd
The thing whereon I hoped still ; And, from the top of all my trust Mishap hath thrown me in the dust,
The time hath been, and that of late,
My heart and I might leap at large,
Of love's desire, nor took no charge
My thought was free, my heart was light,
I marked not who lost, who saught, I plaid by day, I slept by night,
I forced not who wept, who laught; My thought from all such things was free, And I myself at liberty.
I took no heed to taunts nor toys,
As lief to see them frown as smile; Where fortune laugh'd I scorn'd their joys,
I found their frauds, and every wile;
Thus, in the net of my conceit,
I masked still among the sort Of such as fed
• Perhaps saved, or won.
Till at the end, when Cupid spied
My scornful will, and spiteful use,
So that myself might still live loose ;
Such one as Nature never made,
I dare well say, save her alone; Such one she was as would invade
A heart more hard than marble stone; Such one she is, I know it right, Her Nature made to shew her might.
Then, as a man even in a maze,
When use of reason is away,
And suddenly, without delay,
Which daily grieves me more and more,
By sundry sorts of careful woe, And none alive may salve the sore,
But only she that hurt me so; In whom
life doth now consist To save or slay me as she list.
But seeing now that I am caught,
And bound so fast I cannot flee;
you Despise not them that lovers are, Lest you be caught within his snare.
The Lover not regarded in earnest suit, being become
wiser, refuseth his proffered love.
[Abridged from 35 lines.]
Do 'way your physick, I faint no more ;
The salve you sent, it comes too late ;
And what I suffer'd for your sake;
A new the cure did undertake,
knew I was your own,
Yet small regard you took thereat.
Of vaine physick a salve you shape,
How long, ere this, have I been fain
for mercy at your gate,
That pity and you fell at debate.
Your service clean for to forsake :
Harpalus' complaint of Phillida's love bestowed on
Corin, who loved her not, and denied him that loved her.
[Abridged from 104 lines.]
PHILLIDA was a fair maid,
As fresh as any flower ;
To be his paramour.
Harpalus, and eke Corín,
Were herdmen both yfere;'
And thereto sing full clear.