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Now sythe my playnte dothe pytie move,

Graunt grace that I may taste

Such joys as angells feele above,

That lovingly may last.

ANSWER.

I yeeld with harte and wylling mynde
To doe all you desyre;

Doubtinge no deale suche faythe to fynde
As suche truste dothe requier.

Now you have wealthe at your owne will, And lawe at your owne lust,

To make or mar, to save or spill

Then be a conqueror juste.

REJOINDER.

Fyrste shall the sunne in darknes dwell, The moone and starrs lacke lyghte, Before in thoughte I doe rebell

Agaynste my lyve's delyghte:

Tryed is my truste, knowne ys my truthe; In tyme, my sweete, provyde,

Whilst bewtie florishe in thine youthe,

And breathe in me abyde.

EDWARD VERE,

EARL OF OXFORD,

Born about 1534, died 1604.

THE BIRTH OF DESIRE

WHEN Wert thou born, Desire?
"In pomp and pride of May."
By whom, sweet boy, wert thou begot?
"By good Conceit, men say."

Tell me who was thy nurse?

"Fresh Youth in sugared joy." What was thy meat and daily food? "Sore sighs and great annoy."

What hadst thou, then, to drink?
"Unfeigned lovers' tears."

What cradle were you rocked in?
"In Hope devoid of fears."

What brought you, then, asleep?

"Sweet speech that men liked best."

And where is now your dwelling place?
"In gentle hearts I rest."

* This piece is printed in Nicholas Breton's Bower of Delights, 1597. Some of the verses appeared, in 1587, in Puttenham's Arte of Englishe Poesie, where they were ascribed to the Earl of Oxford.

Doth company displease?

"It doth in many a one."

Where would Desire, then, chuse to be? "He likes to be alone."

What feedeth most your sight?

"To gaze on favour still."

Who find you most to be your foe?
"Disdain of my good will."

Will ever age or death

Bring you unto decay?

"No, no; Desire both lives and dies
Ten thousand times a day."

GEORGE GASCOIGNE,
Born about 1540, died about 1578.

A STRANGE PASSION OF A LOVER.

AMID my bale I bathe in blisse;

I swimme in heaven, I sinke in hell;
I finde amendes for every misse,

And yet my mone no tongue can tell :

I live and love, what would you more?
As never lover lived before.

I laugh sometime with little lust,
So jest I oft and feele no joy;
Mine ease is builded all on trust,
And yet mistrust breedes mine annoy :
I live and lacke, I lacke and have;
I have and misse the thing I crave.

These things seeme strange, yet are they trew; Beleeve me, sweete, my state is such :

One pleasure which I would eschew

Both slakes my greefe and breedes my grutch: So doth one paine, whiche I would shun, Renew my joyes where greefe begun.

Then, like the larke that past the night
In heavy sleepe, with cares opprest;
Yet, when she spies the pleasant light,.
She sends sweete notes from out her brest:
So sing I now, because I thinke

How joyes approach when sorrowes shrinke.

And as faire Philomene againe

Can watch and sing when others sleepe,
And taketh pleasure in her paine,

To wray the woe that makes her weepe :
So sing I now for to bewray

The lothsome life I leade alway.

The which to thee (deare wench) I write,
That know'st my mirth, but not my mone:
I pray God grant thee deepe delight,
To live in joys when I am gone.

I cannot live, it will not bee;
I die to thinke to part from thee.

CERTAINE

VERSES WRITTEN TO A GENTLEWOMAN WHOM HEE

LYKED VERY WELL, AND YET HAD NEVER ANY OPPORTUNITY TO DISCOVER HIS AFFECTION, BEING ALWAIES

BRIDLED BY

JELOUSE LOOKES, WHICH ATTENDED THEM BOTH; AND THERE-
FORE GUESSING BY HER LOOKES THAT SHE PARTLY ALSO
LYKED HIM, HE WROTE IN A BOOKE OF HERS AS FOLOWETH:

THOU, with thy lookes, on whom I looke full oft,
And finde therein great cause of deepe delight;

Thy face is faire, thy skin is smooth and soft,
Thy lips are sweete, thine eyes are cleere and bright,

And every part seemes pleasant in my sight;

Yet wote thou well, those lookes have wrought my woe, Because I love to looke upon them so.

For first those lookes allured mine eye to looke,
And straight mine eye stirred up my hart to love;
And cruel love, with deep deceitful hooke,
Choakt up my minde, whom fancie cannot move,
Nor hope relieve, nor other helpe behove;

But still to looke, and though I looke too much,
Needes must I looke, because I see none such.

Thus in thy lookes my love and life have holde,
And with such life my death drawes on apace;
And for such death no med'cine can be tolde,
But looking still upon thy lovely face,
Wherein are painted pitie, peace, and grace:

Then, though thy lookes should cause me for to die,
Needes must I looke, because I live thereby.

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