know it,
He vvas a better workeman, then I Poet.
Yet could not this abate the Louers pace:
For he still holds the louely Maide in chase.
Passing the Court, he comes into a greene,
VVhich vvas in middest of the Pallace seene:
Thorough the midst there ranne a pleasant Spring,
On each side with a vvall of Bricke hemm'd in,
Onely in midst, a Stile; beyond, a Plancke,
VVhich for a Bridge did serue to eyther bancke.
Ouer this Stile as _Laura_ lightly skips,
In her rent garment happily it slips,
And held her there a while till hee came to her,
VVhere once againe the Nouice gins to wwoe her.
Flye not thy friend, our Maker vvilleth so,
Things reasonlesse approue and vvish it so,
If vvithout sense and reason all things then
Obserue a better course then humane men,
How sauage were we then offending so,
Committing that vvhich vve offence doe know?
O were my tongue a second _Orpheus_ Harpe,
That to my loue I might allure thy heart!
Or vvere thy loue but equall vnto mine,
Then vvould thou seeke his fauor vvho seeks thine!
Me thinkes vnkindnesse cannot come from thence,
VVhere beauty raignes vvith such magnificence,
I meane from thee, vvhom nature hath endow'd
VVith more then Art would vvillingly allow'd:
And though by nature you are borne most faire,
Yet Art would adde a beautie to your share:
But it being spotlesse doth disdaine receipt
Of all vnpolish'd painting counterfeit.
Your beautie is a snare vnto our wayes,
VVherein once caught, wee cannot brooke delayes;
VVhich makes vs oft through griefe of minde grow sad,
Griefe follows grief, then malecontent & mad.
Thus by deniall doe you cause our woe,
And then doe triumph in our ouer-throw.
What is it to be fayre? onely a vanitie,
A fading blossome of no perpetuitie.
Consider this: for beautie is a flower,
Subiect to ill occasions euery hower;
It is a tenure holden as wee see
_Durante Dei placito_, not in fee.
Measure my Loue then, proue it by a tryall:
Let me not languish still by your deniall.
If in my suite I erre, as by mischance,
Blame not my Loue but count it ignorance.
The tongue is but an instrument of nought,
And cannot speake the largenesse of the thought:
For when the minde abounds, and almost breaketh,
Then through abundance of the heart it speaketh:
No man can speake but what he hath in minde,
Then what I speake I thinke; be not vnkinde
Vnto your se