The Lover Blameth His Ladies Mistrust, Wherein is Figured the Passions of an Earnest Lover

The lover blameth his ladies mistrust, wherin is figured the passions of an earnest lover

What fancie fond did force your mynde,
My deare, to judge me so unkinde,
As one of wits bereau'd,
To breake the bonds of loyaltie,
As one devoyd of honestie?
No, no, you are deceavd;
For where such perfect amitie
Is linckt with true fidelitie,
By no meanes Junos jealousie
A sunder may it part:
For since with you I fell in love,
Assigned by the Gods above,
My heart did never seeke to prove
From yours once to start.
For proofe to try what I have sayd,
Marke how my flesh away doth fade,
And inward parts doth fret;
For who can hide the slankering fire,
But that it will shewe foorth his ire
By vertue of his heate?
So those ypearst with Cupides dart,
Cannot so closely cloake their smart,
But that they must complaine:
Their scalding sighes their sorowes shewe,
Their colour, fading too and fro,
Beares witnesse of their paine;
Their sowre sitting in secrete nookes,
When others laugh, their lowring lookes,
Declares them caught in Cupides hookes,
And fare as men forlorne,
Their often making of their mone,
Their solemne sitting all alone
In places secrete and unknowne,
Still cursing they were borne,
Are tokens true, the poet sayth,
To whome these turtles vowe their faith,
If sayning we may trust,
Certes, these torments all men greeve,
And therefore sure I do beleeve
Their sayings to be just.
Wherfore to guerdon loyall love,
My deare, such fancies from you move,
As Envie late did faine;
For truly I protest to you,
The heavens shall fall ere I untrue
My loyaltie will staine:
And time, I trust, will so provide,
When elvish Envie shall her hide,
From bale to blisse truth shall us hide,
To top of Fortunes wheele:
Where we, to banishe fell annoy,
Stil live repleate with blissefull joy,
Still lauding of the blinded boy,
Whose force we oft did feele.
Till time obtaines that happy day,
Let no conceite your mynd affray,
In judging me untrue:
Which blessed houre shall hap with speede,
Or else my will shall want his meede;
And thus, sweete wench, adue.
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