The Passionate Lover.
To the tune of I Lov'd thee once Ile love no more.
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AS I sate in a pleasant shade,
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under the arch of a thick Grove,
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Where Nature had an Arbour made,
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I did begin to thinke of Love;
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Me thought it was a peevish toy,
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Because Loves God was but a Boy,
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and deepely vowd that in my breast
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such braineles phrensies should not rest.
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As I thus thought, there passed by
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one seemd a Goddesse, yet a Creature,
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Who did transpire me with her eye,
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and wound me with her heavenly feature:
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My heart she did so deepely wound,
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That I fell senceles to the ground,
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and was of sences quite bereavd,
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till with her hand I up was heavd.
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But her soft hand, diviner touch
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was cause of greater miserie,
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The vertue of her hand was such,
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that it pierst deeper then her eye,
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Her fingers are those venomd darts
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By which she pierceth tender hearts:
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her eyes be shafts, and if she ayme
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she doth the marke or kill, or mayme.
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I gazd so long upon her eyes,
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that I was taken in a snare,
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And made her captive, and her prize,
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bound in the tresses of her hayre:
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As I upon her beautie gaze,
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My erring thoughtes are in a maze,
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whereas they wander round about,
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[And] can[no]t find a passage out.
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I thought she was the soveraine cure
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to salve this heart sick maladie,
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Because she did the wound procure,
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I thought she would be remedie:
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But the unkind denied releife,
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Like a bad Surgeon laucht my greife,
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and left it not as twas before,
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but cared lesse, and wounded more,
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The more I lookt, the worse my heart.
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the more I grieve, the lesse she cares,
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The more she smiles, the worse my smart,
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and she doth laugh when I shed teares:
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This is not Balsame for my sore,
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It helpes it lesse, and paines it more,
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and she may know if she be wise
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I can't be curde by contraries.
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Beautie is like a blasing light,
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that simple fooles doe flock unto,
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Like silly Flyes to that by night.
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till they themselves doe quite undoe,
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For while they dally with the Torch,
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They presently themselves doe scorch,
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then soone they fall, as soone they dye,
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oh that I were not such a Fly.
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I thought in Love were only joy,
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continuall truce, and never war,
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But now I see nought but annoy,
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feares and dispaires the ofspringer:
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Some Men perchance doe Hunny finde,
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If that they meet with one that's kind,
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but I have found that in this Bee
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there is no sweet, but sting for mee.
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The Second Part.
To the same Tune.
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SHe was the white at which I shot,
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but ayming wide I could not hit her
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Scornes and disdaines was all I got,
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she was to coy, I could not get her:
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But as for her, she shot so right
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That none her arrowes hinder might,
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Shee is so skilfull and so quick.
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That if shee shoots shee hits the prick,
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Unhappy I that face to view
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whose every looke shootes death at me,
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Whose every glance doth greive renew,
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and adde degrees to miserie:
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Then let those eyes in darkness languish,
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that were my Conduit's to this anguish,
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And let the Curtaines of sad night,
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Debar them of the joy of light.
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O thrise unhappy I to goe,
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unto the grove where shee was seene,
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It was the cause of all my woe:
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I wish that there I had not beene,
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Then let my legges waxe dry & wither,
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that were my porters brought me hither
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And let them fall and broken lye,
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like pillars by times injurie
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When that I heard the fatall voice,
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that shee pronounc't against my blisse:
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My heart for very anguish stird,
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and ready was pale death to kisse,
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If her least word can doe such wronge:
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why was shee borne with such a tongue,
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And I to heavens will put this suite,
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that I were deafe or she were mute,
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Why should dame nature make such faces,
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and so adorne these heavenly creatures:
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When they doe want those milder graces,
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That doe adde grace unto their features
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Like to the Syrens they allure:
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that no man can their Charmes indure,
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And in the lookes where grace should ly:
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sharpe frownes sits in and puts grace by
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I thought in that soft Sattin skin,
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which being toucht doth seeme to melt,
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And in that brest which tempts to sinne:
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and ravish men when it is fealt,
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There had not beene so hard a hart;
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since softnes was in every part,
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Oh why should Nature make a Jewell,
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to be so Lovely and so Cruell:
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The burning fever of fond love,
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hath now corrupted every part:
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My legges too weake can hardly move;
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and love hath festered to my heart,
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My sinewes shrirke my hart-strings ake,
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My pulses leape my joynts doe shake:
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And every limbe and every sence,
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is plagued for my eyes offence.
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Then let my soule post hence away,
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And with swift flight from me be gone,
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Why should it with mee longer stay:
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in such a rotten mansion;
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O Let it take the last farewell,
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in such a house no longer dwell,
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While I for grife would farther speake,
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my soule flyes out my heart-strings break
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