Fly, my Breast! Leave me forsaken!
Wherein Grief his seat hath taken;
All his arrows through me darting.
Thou mayest live by her sunshining!
I shall suffer no more pining
By thy loss, than by her parting.
A shepherd in a shade, his plaining made
Of love, and lover's wrong,
Unto the fairest Lass, that trode on grass,
And thus began his song:
"Since Love and Fortune will, I honour still
Your fair and lovely eye!
What conquest will it be, sweet Nymph! for thee!
If I, for sorrow die?
Restore! restore, my heart again!
Which love, by thy sweet looks hath slain!
Lest that, enforced by your disdain,
I sing 'Fie on love! it is a foolish thing!'
"My heart where have you laid, O cruel Maid!
To kill, when you might save!
Why have ye cast it forth, as nothing worth,
Without a tomb, or grave?
O let it be entombed, and lie
In your sweet mind and memory!
Lest I resound on every warbling string,
'Fie! fie on love! that is a foolish thing!'
Restore! restore, my heart again!
Which love, by thy sweet looks hath slain!
Lest that, enforced by your disdain,
I sing 'Fie on love! it is a foolish thing!'"
Shall I sue? shall I seek for grace?
Shall I pray? shall I prove?
Shall I strive to a heavenly joy,
With an earthly love?
Shall I think that a bleeding heart,
Or a wounded eye,
Or a sigh, can ascend the clouds,
To attain so high?
Silly wretch! Forsake these dreams
Of a vain Desire!
O bethink what high regard,
Holy hopes do require!
Favour is as fair as things are!
Treasure is not bought!
Favour is not won with words,
Nor the wish of a thought.
Pity is but a poor defence
For a dying heart:
Ladies' eyes respect no moan
In a mean desert.
She is too worthy far,
For a worth so base!
Cruel, and but just is She,
In my just disgrace.