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HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY.
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.
SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
THE SILENT LOVER.
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,
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.
SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
Thus those desires that aim too high
For any mortal lover,
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.
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
Where him to sleep she gently would persuade,
And, whilst he slept, she over him would spread
And fragrant violets, and pansies trim;
So did she steal his heedless heart away,
Mote breed him scathe unwares; but all in vain:
Lo! where beyond he lieth languishing,
Him to a dainty flower she did transmew,