The Revenge.
[Ronsard.]
Fair rebel to thyself and Time,
Who laugh’st at all my tears,
When thou hast lost thy youthful prime,
And Age his trophy rears,
Weighing thy inconsiderate pride,5
Thou shalt in vain accuse it:
‘Why beauty am I now denied,
Or knew not then to use it?’
Then shall I wish, ungentle Fair,
Thou in like flames may’st burn!10
Venus, if just, will hear my prayer,
And I shall laugh my turn.
[Guarini.]
Alas! alas! thou turn’st in vain
Thy beauteous face away,
Which, like young sorcerers, rais’d a pain
Above its power to lay.
Love moves not as thou turn’st thy[60:1] look,5
But here doth firmly rest:
He long ago thine[60:2] eyes forsook
To revel in my breast.