As many songs of love there are
As green leaves in Asummer wood,
While yet the autumn is afar
And the swift rains are good.

And some leaves fall in any storm
And some dance lightly East and West;
But some—ah, some cling soft and warm
About a nest.

Love peruse me, seeke, and finde
How each corner of my minde
Is a twine
Woven to shine.
Not a Webb ill made, foule fram'd,
Bastard not by Father nam'd,
Such in me
Cannot bee.
Deare behold me, you shall see
Faith the Hive, and love the Bee,
Which doe bring.
Gaine and sting.
Pray desect me, sinewes, vaines,
Hold, and loves life in those gaines;
Lying bare
To despaire,
When you thus anotamise
All my body, my heart prise;
Being true
Just to you.
Close the Truncke, embalme the Chest,
Where your power still shall rest,

Love lett mee live, ore lett mee dye,
Use mee nott wurse then poorest fly
Who finds some comfort, while alone
I live, and waste in moane;

I have noe shrouding place from woe,
The billowes beare my overthrowe,
And sands they cover in disgrace
Of my loves truest face.

Wretch sayth the sea heer stay, and drowne:
Can you nott feare her curstest frowne?
Alas she chides us that you stay,
After her just denay,

She is the Goddesse sole of Love;
How dare you mortall thus to move?
Bow hart, and soule to her least frowne

Love growne proud with victory,
Seekes by sleights to conquer me,
Painted showes he thinks can bind
His commands in womens mind.
Love but glories in fond loving,
I most joy in not removing.

Love a word, a looke, a smile,
In these shapes can some beguile,
But he some new way must move
To make me a vassell prove.
Love but &

Love must all his shadowes leave
Or himselfe he will deceive,
Who loves not the perfect skie,
More then clouds that wanton flie.
Love but &

Love, yet thus thou maist me win,

I

The rugged forhead that with grave foresight
Welds kingdomes causes and affaires of state,
My looser rimes (I wote) doth sharply wite,
For praising love, as I have done of late,
And magnifying lovers deare debate;
By which fraile youth is oft to follie led,
Through false allurement of that pleasing baite,
That better were in vertues discipled,
Then with vaine poemes weeds to have their fancies fed.
II

Such ones ill judge of love, that cannot love,
Ne in their frosen hearts feele kindly flame:
Forthy they ought not thing unknowne reprove,

The joy you say the Heavens in motion trie
Is not for change, but for their constancy.
Should they stand still, their change you then might move,
And serve your turne in praise of fickle love.
That pleasure is not but diversified,
Plainely makes proofe your youth, not judgement tried.
The Sunnes renewing course, yet is not new,
Since tis but one set course he doth pursue,
And though it faigned be, that he hath chang'd,
'Twas when he from his royall seate hath raing'd:
His glorious splendor, free from such a staine,

In the days of old
Lovers felt true passion,
Deeming years of sorrow
By a smile repaid:
Now the charms of gold,
Spells of pride and fashion,
Bid them say Good-morrow
To the best-loved Maid.

Through the forests wild,
O'er the mountains lonely,
They were never weary
Honor to pursue:
If the damsel smiled
Once in seven years only,
All their wanderings dreary
Ample guerdon knew.

Now one day's caprice
Weighs down years of smiling,
Youthful hearts are rovers,
Love is bought and sold.
Fortune's gifts may cease,

If you should tire of loving me
Some one of our far days,
Oh, never start to hide your heart
Or cover thought with praise.

For every word you would not say
Be sure my heart has heard,
So go from me all silently
Without a kiss or word;

For God must give you happiness. . . .
And oh, it may befall
In listening long to Heaven-song
I may not care at all!

If a cleere fountaine still keeping a sad course,
Weepe out her sorrowes in drops, which like teares fall;
Marvell not if I lament my misfortune,
Brought to the same call.

Who thought such faire eyes could shine, and dissemble?
Who thought such sweete breath could poyson loves shame?
Who thought those chast eares could so be defiled?
Hers be the sole blame.

While love deserv'd love, of mine still she fail'd not,
Foole I to love still where mine was neglected,
Yet faith, and honor, both of me claim'd it,
Although rejected.

I shall not sing again of love—
I weary of the old unrest.
(But like a hangman, Love has set
His crimson emblem on my breast;

But like a hangman, Love has placed
His crimson seal my heart above)—
Yea, I am wearied with old pain:
I shall not sing again of love.