These are no novel news I tell, the proof is plainly known: To such as do offend their wills, their power forth is shown. They see thy conscience guilty is; thy faithless fraud they see: And think'st thou then, this guilt of thine can unrewarded be? O FAITH, think not so far to wish from reason's limits pure! But judge thyself, what justice they to sinful ones inure. And thyself such doom shall give, as guilty shalt thou find: Therefore relent, and once again thy grudging conscience mind! Which unto gods that sacrèd are, as guilty thee bewray. In place of fraud, let faith and truth with thee now bear the sway! Revoke and call to memory the fruits of friendship shown! Perpend in mind my torments strong, my plaints and pensive moan! Which, six long years, as passionate to carping yoke of care, I 'bode for thee, as thou thyself, I know, canst well declare. Remember thou the plaints and tears which I poured forth for thee! And ponder well the sacred vow that thou hast made to me! Which vow gave comfort to thy friend, that subject served to grief: Thou gavest thyself a pledge to me! Thy faith was my relief! But now what hellish hag, alas, hath turned thy love to hate? Or else what whelp of HYDRA's kind in thee hath wrought debate? Alas, wilt thou despoil me quite of my possessèd joy? Or wilt thou plunge me headlong thus to gulfs of great annoy? Who would a [_have_] thought alas, such fraud to rest in thee? Who would have deemed, without desert thy heart should change from me? Whose heart hath couched his tent within my covert breast And thine, I hoped, of me thy friend likewise had been possesst. But wavering minds, I plainly see, so compassèd with guile, Pretend by sleights, the perfect joys of friends for to exile. O should a prattling parasite so egg thee with disdain; That thou, the presence of thy friend, through flattery, shouldst refrain? Not vouching once to speak with him, whose heart thou hadst in hold: Sith Liking fame hath granted grace; should Love so soon be cold! Consider these my letters well, and answer them again! For I, thy friend in covert zeal, this time hath closed my pen. Farewell! Adieu! Ten thousand times to GOD I thee commend! Beseeching him his heavenly grace unto thee still to send! Thy friend in wealth, thy friend in woe: Thy friend while life shall flit me fro. And whilst that you enjoy your breath, Leave not your friend unto the death! For greater praise cannot be won Than to observe True Love begun. W. G. FINIS. Imprinted at London by Richard Jones. [Illustration]