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The secret thoughts, imparted with such trust;

The wanton talk, the divers change of play; The friendship sworn, each promise kept so just,

Wherewith we past the winter night away.

And with this thought the blood forsakes the face,

The tears berain my cheeks of deadly hue: The which, as soon as sobbing sighs, alas!

Up-suppèd have, thus I my plaint renew:

“O place of bliss! renewer of my woes!

Give me account, where is thy noble fere, Whom in thy walls thou didst each night enclose,

To other lief, but unto me most dear?"

Echo, alas! that doth my sorrow rue,

Returns thereto a hollow sound of plaint. Thus I alone, where all my freedom grew,

In prison pine, with bondage and restraint; And with remembrance of the greater grief, To banish the less, I find my chief relief.





PASSIONS are likened best to floods and streams:

The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb; So when affections yield discourse, it seems

The bottom is but shallow whence they come. They that are rich in words, in words discover That they are poor in that which makes a lover.

Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart!

The limit of true passion,
With thinking that he feels no smart,

That sues for no compassion;

Since if my plaints serve not to approve

The conquest of thy beauty, It comes not from defect of love,

But from excess of duty:

For, knowing that I sue to serve

A saint of such perfection, As all desire, but none deserve,

A place in thy affection,

I rather choose to want relief

Than venture the revealing: Where glory recommends the grief,

Despair distrusts the healing.


Thus those desires that aim too high

For any mortal lover,
When reason cannot make them die,

Discretion doth them cover.

Yet, when discretion doth bereave

The plaints that they should utter, Then thy discretion may perceive

That silence is a suitor.

Silence in love betrays more woe

Than words, though ne'er so witty; A beggar that is dumb, you know,

May challenge double pity!

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart!

My true, though secret passion; He smarteth most that hides his smart,

And sues for no compassion.

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The walls were round about apparelled With costly cloths of Arras and of Toure; In which with cunning hand was pourtrayed The love of Venus and her paramour, The fair Adonis turned to a flower; A work of rare device, and wondrous wit. First did it shew the bitter baleful stowre, Which her assayd with many a fervent fit, When first her tender heart was with his beauty smit;

Then with what sleights and sweet allurements she
Enticed the boy, as well that art she knew,
And wooèd him her paramour to be:
Now making garlands of each flower that grew,
To crown his golden locks with honor due;
Now leading him into a secret shade
From his beauperes, and from bright heaven's view,

Where him to sleep she gently would persuade,
Or bathe him in a fountain by some covert glade;


And, whilst he slept, she over him would spread
Her mantle colored like the starry skies,
And her soft arm lay underneath his head,
And with ambrosial kisses bathe his eyes;
And, whilst he bathed, with her two crafty spies
She secretly would search each dainty limb,
And throw into the well sweet rosemarys,

And fragrant violets, and pansies trim;
And ever with sweet nectar she did sprinkle him.

So did she steal his heedless heart away,
And 'joyed his love in secret unespied;
But, for she saw him bent to cruel play,
To hunt the savage beast in forest wide,
Dreadful of danger that mote him betide,
She oft and oft advised him to refrain
From chase of greater beasts, whose brutish pride

Mote breed him scathe unwares; but all in vain:
For who can shun the chance that destiny doth ordain?

Lo! where beyond he lieth languishing,
Deadly engored of a great wild boar,
And by his side the goddess grovelling
Makes for him endless moan, and evermore
With her soft garment wipes away the gore
Which stains his snowy skin with hateful hue;
But, when she saw no help might him restore,

Him to a dainty flower she did transmew,
Which in that cloth was wrought, as if it lively grew.

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