Lovers, lament! You that have truly loved! For PHILOPARTHEN, now, hath lost his love: The greatest loss that ever lover proved. O let his hard hap some compassion move! Who had not rued the loss of her so much; But that he knows the world yields no more such. LXIII. Upon the ocean of conceited error, My weary spirits, many storms have past; Which now in harbour, free from wonted terror, Joy the possession of their rest at last. And, henceforth, safely may they lie at road! And never rove for "Had I wist!" abroad! FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 9: _DIOGENES._] [Footnote 10: _CHAUCER._] [Illustration] _LOVE'S Accusation at the Judgement Seat_ _of REASON; wherein the Author's whole_ _success in his love is covertly_ _deciphered._ [Compare this, with GASCOIGNE'S poem, _Vol. I. p._ 63.] [Illustration] IN REASON'S Court, myself being Plaintiff there, LOVE was, by process, summoned to appear. That so the wrongs, which he had done to me, Might be made known; and all the world might see: And seeing, rue what to my cost I proved; While faithful, but unfortunate I loved. After I had obtainèd audience; I thus began to give in evidence. [_The Author's Evidence against LOVE._] "Most sacred Queen! and Sovereign of man's heart! Which of the mind dost rule the better part! First bred in heaven, and from thence, hither sent To guide men's actions by thy regiment! Vouchsafe a while to hear the sad complaint Of him that LOVE hath long kept in restraint; And, as to you it properly belongs, Grant justice of my undeservèd wrongs! It's now two years, as I remember well, Since first this wretch, (sent from the nether hell, To plague the world with new-found cruelties), Under the shadow of two crystal Eyes, Betrayed my Sense; and, as I slumbering lay, Feloniously conveyed my heart away; Which most unjustly he detained from me, And exercised thereon strange tyranny. Sometime his manner was, in sport and game, With briars and thorns, to raze and prick the same; Sometime with nettles of Desire to sting it; Sometime with pincons[11] of Despair to wring it; Sometime again, he would anoint the sore, And heal the place that he had hurt before: But hurtful helps! and ministered in vain! Which servèd only to renew my pain. For, after that, more wounds he added still, Which piercèd deep, but had no power to kill. Unhappy medicine! which, instead of cure, Gives strength to make the patient more endure! But that which was most strange of all the rest (Myself being thus 'twixt life and death distrest), Ofttimes, when as my pain exceeded measure, He would persuade me that the same was pleasure; My solemn sadness, but contentment meet; My travail, rest; and all my sour, sweet; My wounds, but gentle strokes: whereat he smiled,