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Proud of subjection, noble by the sway,
The one a palate hath that needs will taste,
What rounds, what bounds, what course, what Though Reason weep, and cry "It is thy last."
stop he makes!"

And controversy hence a question takes,
Whether the horse by him became his deed,
Or he his manage by the well-doing steed.

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'For further I could say "This man's untrue,"
And knew the patterns of his foul beguiling; 170
Heard where his plants in others' orchards grew,
Saw how deceits were gilded in his smiling;
Knew vows were ever brokers to defiling;
Thought characters and words merely but art,
And bastards of his foul adulterate heart.

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The tender nibbler would not touch the bait,
But smile and jest at every gentle offer:

Then fell she on her back, fair queen, and toward:
He rose and ran away; ah, fool too froward!


When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor❜d youth,
Unskilful in the world's false forgeries.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although I know my years be past the best,
I smiling credit her false-speaking tongue,
Outfacing faults in love with love's ill rest.
But wherefore says my love that she is young?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love's best habit is a soothing tongue,
And age, in love, loves not to have years told.
Therefore I'll lie with love, and love with me,
Since that our faults in love thus smother'd be.


If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love?


O never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow'd: Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll constant prove;


Two loves I have, of comfort and despair,
That like two spirits do suggest me still;
My better angel is a man right fair,
My worser spirit a woman colour'd'ill.
To win me soon to hell, my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her fair pride.
And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend,
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell:
For being both to me, both to each friend,
I guess one angel in another's hell;

The truth I shall not know, but live in doubt,
Till my bad angel fire my good one out..



Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye,
'Gainst whom the world could not hold argu-


Persuade my heart to this false perjury?
Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment.
A woman I forswore; but I will prove,
Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee:
My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love;
Thy grace being gain'd cures all disgrace in me.
My vow was breath, and breath a vapour is;
Then, thou fair sun, that on this earth doth shine,
Exhale this vapour vow; in thee it is:
If broken, then it is no fault of mine.

If by me broke, what fool is not so wise
To break an oath, to win a paradise?


Touches so soft still conquer chastity.
But whether unripe years did want conceit,
Or he refused to take her figured proffer,



Sweet Cytherea, sitting by a brook
With young Adonis, lovely, fresh, and green,
Did court the lad with many a lovely look,
Such looks as none could look but beauty's queen.
She told him stories to delight his ear;
She show'd him favours to allure his eye;

Those thoughts, to me like oaks, to thee like osiers bow'd.

60 Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes,

Where all those pleasures live that art can comprehend.

If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice;

Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend;

All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder;

Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire:
Thine eye Jove's lightning seems, thy voice his
dreadful thunder,

Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire.
Celestial as thou art, O do not love that wrong,
To sing heaven's praise with such an earthly



Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn,
And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade,
When Cytherea, all in love forlorn,
A longing tarriance for Adonis made
Under an osier growing by a brook,
A brook where Adon used to cool his spleen:
Hot was the day; she hotter that did look
For his approach, that often there had been.
Anon he comes, and throws his mantle by,
And stood stark naked on the brook's green brim:
The sun look'd on the world with glorious eye, 81
Yet not so wistly as this queen on him.


He, spying her, bounced in, whereas he stood: 'O Jove,' quoth she, 'why was not I a flood!'


Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle;
Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty;
Brighter than glass, and yet, as glass is, brittle;
Softer than wax, and yet, as iron, rusty:

A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her,
None fairer, nor none falser to deface her.



Her lips to mine how often hath she joined,
Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing!

To win his heart, she touch'd him here and How many tales to please me hath she coined,


Dreading my love, the loss thereof still fearing!
Yet in the midst of all her pure protestings,
Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were


She burn'd with love, as straw with fire flameth;
She burn'd out love, as soon as straw out-burneth;
She framed the love, and yet she foil'd the fram-

She bade love last, and yet she fell a-turning. 100
Was this a lover, or a lecher whether?
Bad in the best, though excellent in neither.


If music and sweet poetry agree,

As they must needs, the sister and the brother,
Then must the love be great 'twixt thee and me,
Because thou lovest the one, and I the other.
Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch
Upon the lute doth ravish human sense;
Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is such
As, passing all conceit, needs no defence.
Thou lovest to hear the sweet melodious sound
That Phoebus' lute, the queen of music, makes;
And I in deep delight am chiefly drown'd
Whenas himself to singing he betakes.

One god is god of both, as poets feign;
One knight loves both, and both in thee remain.



Fair was the morn when the fair queen of love,





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Deep in the thigh, a spectacle of ruth!
See, in my thigh,' quoth she, 'here was the sore.'
She showed hers: he saw more wounds than


And blushing fled, and left her all alone.


Paler for sorrow than her milk-white dove,

For Adon's sake, a youngster proud and wild; 120 Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good;
Her stand she takes upon a steep-up hill:
A shining gloss that vadeth suddenly;
Anon Adonis comes with horn and hounds; A flower that dies when first it gins to bud;
She, silly queen, with more than love's good will, A brittle glass that's broken presently:
Forbade the boy he should not pass those grounds: A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,
'Once,' quoth she, 'did I see a fair sweet youth Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an hour.
Here in these brakes deep-wounded with a


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Crabbed age and youth cannot live together:
Youth is full of pleasance, age is full of care;
Youth like summer morn, age like winter weather;
Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare.
Youth is full of sport, age's breath is short; 161
Youth is nimble, age is lame;

Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold;
Youth is wild, and age is tame.
Age, I do abhor thee; youth, I do adore thee;
O, my love, my love is young!
Age, I do defy thee: O, sweet shepherd, hie thee,
For methinks thou stay'st too long.


And as goods lost are seld or never found,
As vaded gloss no rubbing will refresh,
As flowers dead lie wither'd on the ground,
As broken glass no cement can redress,

So beauty blemish'd once's for ever lost,
In spite of physic, painting, pain and cost. 180


Good night, good rest. Ah, neither be
She bade good night that kept my rest away;
And daff'd me to a cabin hang'd with care,
To descant on the doubts of my decay.
'Farewell,' quoth she, 'and come again to-

morrow :'

Fare well I could not, for I supp'd with sorrow.

Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile,
In scorn or friendship, nill I construe whether:
'T may be, she joy'd to jest at my exile,
'T may be, again to make me wander thither:
'Wander,' a word for shadows like myself, 191
As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf.



Venus, with young Adonis sitting by her
Under a myrtle shade, began to woo him:
She told the youngling how god Mars did try Not daring trust the office of mine eyes,

Lord, how mine eyes throw gazes to the east!
My heart doth charge the watch; the morning rise
Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest.

And as he fell to her, so fell she to him.

While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark,
And wish her lays were tuned like the lark;

For she doth welcome daylight with her ditty,
And drives away dark dismal-dreaming night:
The night so pack'd, I post unto my pretty; 201
Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight;
Sorrow changed to solace, solace mix'd with


For why, she sigh'd and bade me come to



Love's denying,
Faith's defying,
Heart's renying,


It was a lording's daughter, the fairest one of three,

That liked of her master as well as well might be, Till looking on an Englishman, the fair'st that eye could see,

Her fancy fell a-turning. Long was the combat doubtful that love with love did fight,

To leave the master loveless, or kill the gallant

To put in practice either, alas, it was a spite
Unto the silly damsel!

But one must be refused; more mickle was the pain
That nothing could be used to turn them both to


For of the two the trusty knight was wounded

with disdain:

Alas, she could not help it!

Thus art with arms contending was victor of the day,

Which by a gift of learning did bear the maid


Then, lullaby, the learned man hath got the lady
For now my song is ended.


On a day, alack the day!

Love, whose month was ever May,
Spied a blossom passing fair,
Playing in the wanton air:
Through the velvet leaves the wind,
All unseen, gan passage find;
That the lover, sick to death,
Wish'd himself the heaven's breath,
'Air,' quoth he, 'thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!
But, alas! my hand hath sworn
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
Vow, alack! for youth unmeet:
Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet.
Thou for whom Jove would swear
Juno but an Ethiope were;
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.'

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Were I with her, the night would post too soon;
But now are minutes added to the hours;
To spite me now, each minute seems a moon;
Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers!
Pack night, peep day; good day, of night now

Short, night, to-night, and length thyself to




Causer of this.

All my merry jigs are quite forgot,
All my lady's love is lost, God wot:
Where her faith was firmly fix'd in love,
There a nay is placed without remove.
One silly cross

Wrought all my loss;

O frowning Fortune, cursed, fickle dame!
For now I see


More in women than in men remain.

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Procure to weep,

In howling wise, to see my doleful plight. How sighs resound

Clear wells spring not,
Sweet birds sing not,
Green plants bring not

Forth their dye;
Herds stand weeping,
Flocks all sleeping,
Nymphs back peeping


Through heartless ground,

Like a thousand vanquish'd men in bloody fight!


All our pleasure known to us poor swains,
All our merry meetings on the plains,
All our evening sport from us is fled,
All our love is lost, for Love is dead.
Farewell, sweet lass,


Thy like ne'er was

For a sweet content, the cause of all my


Poor Corydon

Must live alone;

Other help for him I see that there is


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