A PROPER NEW BALLAD,
Being the Regrate of a true Lover, for his
Mistriss Unkindnesse.
To a new Tune, Ile ever love the more.
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I Wish I were those Gloves, dear heart,
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which could thy hands inshrine;
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Then should no sorrow grief nor smart,
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molest this heart of mine:
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But since the Fates doth this deny,
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which leaves me to deplore,
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My dribling eyes shall never dry,
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until thou love me more.
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But O that I might shrouded be
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within [these] arms of thine,
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And that my soul might say of thee,
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that thou were freely mine:
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[Then prostrate at thy] feet I would,
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thee doub[t]lesse still ad[o]re,
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And so in spight of Fate I should,
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assay to love thee more.
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I shall defy that mortal Wight,
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enjoy thee w[h]o so will,
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Then I to soar an higher flight
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in love, or mount me till:
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But since to one I must resigne,
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thee quite and give thee ore,
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Ile love him, for that face of thine,
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which made me love thee more.
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Nay sure some sacred Angel haunts,
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within that heart of thine,
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Whose secret power my soul enchants,
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which from thy eyes do shine:
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But O that I could thee inflame,
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I did him implore,
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That so by reason of the same,
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thou yet might love me more.
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But happie is thy servent sure,
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that such a love enjoies,
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Whose smiles does all disasters cure,
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whos[e] frowns breeds all annoies:
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As Phebus breaking through the cloud,
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gives heat and light in store,
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So when thou doth thine eyes unshrude,
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they make me love thee more.
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I wish I were a Hauk to soar
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within the skie of love,
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And that thou metamorphosd were
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into a turtle Dove:
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There would I catch thee with delight,
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with pleasure plum thee ore,
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And so should none beneath our flight,
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attempt to love thee more.
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Thy face is as a heaven which holds
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two shining suns of love,
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The which thine eye-lids clouds infold,
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in ivorie Orbs they move:
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Their absence makes me like to die,
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their presence burns me sore,
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So still in these extreams I lie,
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and yet must love thee more.
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To lodge betwixt these ivorie hills,
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which in thy bosom dwells,
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From whence the sugred nectar trils
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in sweetness that excels:
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There would I surfeit with delight,
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my self, and nere give ore,
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Till love should so our souls unite,
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as ay to love thee more.
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I like the Salamander am,
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that in the fire remains,
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And not consumed with the flame,
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I live in pleasant pains:
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O that these bodies were to act,
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as free as minds to soare,
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Then surelie I at length would make
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my Lasse to love me more.
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Since of the days desires our dreams,
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the true ideas are,
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I wish that of mine eyes, the beams
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in sleep inclosed were:
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That slumbring I might thee possess,
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whom daylie I adore,
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For waking I dare scarce transgress,
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and yet must love thee more.
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But yet if thou would condescend
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unto my dear request.
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And suffer me my health to spend,
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upon thy candid breast:
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Then surelie I, or ever let,
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imperiouslie would soare,
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As praising thee at highest rate,
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and so would love thee more.
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Some comfort unto those belong,
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who commen lovers be,
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Since they upon surmise of wrong,
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can set their fancie free:
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But should I die by thy disdain,
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which others would abhore,
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My pure affection shall unstaind,
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aspire to love thee more.
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Then let not black ingratitude,
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so dear a Saint disgrace,
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For it would taint the finest blood,
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and stain the fairest face:
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Since thou mayest love, and yet be chast,
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and still behind have store,
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Then slight not him, who doth attest
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the gods, hel love thee more.
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