Imatges de pàgina
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But one must be refused, more mickle was the pain,
That nothing could be used, to turn them both to gain,
For of the two the trusty knight was wounded with disdain :

Alas she could not help it!
Thus art with arms contending was victor of the day,
Which by a gift of learning did bear the maid away;
Then lullaby, the learned man hath got the lady gay, ; .

For now my song is ended.

XV.

On a day (alack the day !)
Love, whose month was ever May,
Spy'd a blossom passing fair,
Playing in the wanton air,
Through the velvet leaves the wind,
All unseen, 'gan passage find;
That the lover, fick to death,
With'd himself the heaven's breath :
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!
But alas ! my hand hath sworn
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn :
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet,
Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet.
Do not call it fin in me,
That I am forsworn for thee;
Thou for whom even Jove would swear
Juno but an Ethiope were ;
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.

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XVI.
My flocks feed not,
My ewes breed not,
My rams speed not,

All is amifs :
Love's denying,
Faith's defying,
Heart's renying,

Causer of this.
All my merry jigs are quite forgot,
All my lady's love is loft, God wot:
Where her faith was firmly fix'd in love,
There a nay is plac'd without remove.
One filly cross
Wrought all my lofs;

O frowning fortune, cursed, fickle dame!
For now I see,
Inconstancy

More in women than in men remain.

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In black mourn I,
All fears scorn I,
Love hath forlorn me,

Living in thrall :
Heart is bleeding,
All help needing,
(O cruel speeding!)

Fraughted with gall.
My shepherd's pipe can found no deal,
My wethers' bell rings doleful knell ;
My curtail dog that wont to have play'd,
Plays not at all, but seems afraid ;

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With fighs so deep,
Procures to weep,

In howling-wise, to see my doleful plight.
How fighs resound
Through heartless ground,

Like a thousand vanquish'd men in bloody fight!
Clear wells Tpring not,
Sweet birds sing not,
Green plants bring not

Forth ; they die :
Herds stand weeping,
Flocks all sleeping,
Nymphs back peeping

Fearfully.
All our pleasure known to us poor swains,
All our merry meetings on the plains,
All our evening sport from us is fled,
All our love is loft, for love is dead.
Farewel, sweet love,
Thy like ne'er was

For sweet content, the cause of all my moan:
Poor Coridon
Must live alone,

Other help for him I see that there is none.

XVII.

When as thine eye hath chose the dame,
And stall’d the deer that thou should'st strike,
Let reason rule things worthy blame,
As well as fancy, partial might:

Take counsel of some wiser head,
Neither too young, nor yet unwed.

And when thou com'st thy tale to tell,
Smooth not thy tongue with filed talk,
Left she fome subtle practice smell';
(A cripple foon can find a halt :)

But plainly say thou lov'st her well,
And set her person forth to fale.

What though her frowning brows be bent,
Her cloudy looks will calm ere night;
And then too late she will repent,
That thus dissembļed her delight;

And twice desire, ere it be day,
That which with scorn she put away,

What though she strive to try her strength,
And ban and brawl, and say thee nay,
Her feeble force will yield at length,
When craft hath taught her thus to say:

“ Had women been so strong as men,
In faith you had not had it then.”

And to her will frame all thy ways;
Spare not to spend,—and chiefly there
Where thy desert may merit praise,
By ringing in thy lady's ear:

The strongest castle, tower, and town,
The golden bullet beats it down.

Serve always with assured trust,
And in thy suit be humble, true ;
Unless thy lady prove unjust,
Press never thou to choose anew :

When time shall serve, be thou not fack
To proffer, though the put thee back,

The wiles and guiles that women work,
Diffembled with an outward show,
The tricks and toys that in them lurk,
The cock that treads them shall not know.
Have

you

not heard it said full oft, A woman's nay doth stand for nought?

Think women still to thrive with men,
To fin, and never for to saint:
There is no heaven, -by holy then,
When time with age thall them attaint.

Were kisses all the joys in bed,
One woman would another wed.

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As it fell upon a day,
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,
Trees did grow, and plants did spring ::
Every thing did banish moan,
Save the nightingale alone :
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn,

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