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INCE I did leave the presence of my love,
Many long weary dayes I have outworne,
And many nights, that slowly seemd to move
Theyr sad protract from evening untill morne :
For when as day the heaven doth adorne,
I wish that night the noyous day would end;
And when as night hath us of light forlorne,
I wish that day would shortly reascend.
Thus I the time with expectation spend,
And faine my griefe with chaunges to beguile,
That further seemes his terme still to extend,
And maketh every minute seem a myle.

So sorrowe still doth seeme too long to last,
But joyous houres doe fly away too fast.


INCE I have lackt the comfort of that light,
The which was wont to lead my thoughts

I wander as in darknesse of the night,
Affrayd of every dangers least dismay.
Ne ought I see, though in the clearest day,
When others gaze upon theyr shadowes vayne,
But th' onely image of that heavenly ray,
Whereof some glance doth in mine eie remayne :
Of which beholding the Idæa playne,
Through contemplation of my purest part,
With light thereof I doe my selfe sustayne,
And thereon feed my love-affamisht hart.

But, with such brightnesse whylest I fill my mind,
I starve my body, and mine eyes doe blynd.


YKE as the Culver on the bared bough
Sits mourning for the absence of her mate,
And in her songs sends many a wishfull vow
For his returne that seemes to linger late;
So I alone, now left disconsolate,

Mourne to my selfe the absence of my love,
And, wandring here and there all desolate,
Seek with my playnts to match that mournful dove:
Ne joy of ought that under heaven doth hove
Can comfort me, but her owne joyous sight;
Whose sweet aspect both God and man can move,
In her unspotted pleasauns to delight.

Dark is my day whyles her fayre light I mis,
And dead my life that wants such lively blis.


IN youth before I waxed old,
The blynd boy, Venus baby,
For want of cunning made me bold,
In bitter hyve to grope for honny :

But, when he saw me stung and cry,
He tooke his wings and away did fly.

S Diane hunted on a day,

She chaunst to come where Cupid lay,
His quiver by his head:

One of his shafts she stole away,

And one of hers did close convay

Into the others stead:

With that Love wounded my loves hart,
But Diane beasts with Cupids dart.

SAW, in secret to my Dame
How little Cupid humbly came,

And said to her; "All hayle, my mother!"

But when he saw me laugh, for shame
His face with bashfull blood did flame,
Not knowing Venus from the other.
"Then, never blush, Cupid (quoth I),
For many have err'd in this beauty."

PON a day, as Love lay sweetly slumbring
All in his mothers lap,

A gentle Bee, with his loud trumpet murm-

About him flew by hap:

Whereof when he was wakened with the noyse,

And saw the beast so small;

"Whats this (quoth he) that gives so great a voyce, That wakens men withall ?

In angry wize he flies about,

And threatens all with corage stout."

To whom his mother closely smiling sayd, 'Twixt earnest and 'twixt game:

"See! thou thy selfe likewise art lyttle made,
If thou regard the same;

And yet thou suffrest neyther gods in sky,
Nor men in earth, to rest;

But when thou art disposed cruelly,

Theyr sleepe thou doost molest.
Then eyther change thy cruelty,
Or give lyke leave unto the fly."

Nathlesse, the cruell boy, not so content,
Would needs the fly pursue;

And in his hand, with heedlesse hardiment,

Him caught for to subdue.

But when on it he hasty hand did lay,

The Bee him stung therefore:

"Now out alas, (he cryde) and welaway! I wounded am full sore:

The fly that I so much did scorne,

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Hath hurt me with his little horne."


Unto his mother straight he weeping came,
And of his griefe complayned;

Who could not chose but laugh at his fond game, Though sad to see him pained.

"Think now, (quoth she) my sonne, how great the


Of those whom thou dost wound:

Full many thou hast pricked to the hart,

That pitty never found.

Therefore, henceforth some pitty take,

When thou doest spoyle of Lovers make."

She tooke him streight full pitiously lamenting,
And wrapt him in her smock:

She wrapt him softly, all the while repenting
That he the fly did mock.

She drest his wound, and it embaulmed well

With salve of soveraigne might;

And then she bath'd him in a dainty well,

The well of deare delight.

Who would not oft be stung as this,
To be so bath'd in Venus blis ?



The wanton boy was shortly wel recured
Of that his malady ;

But he, soone after, fresh again enured

His former cruelty:

And since that time he wounded hath



With his sharpe dart of Love;

And now forgets, the cruell carelesse elfe,

His mothers heast to prove.

So now I languish, till he please

My pining anguish to appease.


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