He is a courtier, for he courts his love; He is a scholler, for he sings sweet ditties; He is a souldier, for he wounds doth prove; He is the fame of townes, the shame of citties: He scornes false fortune, but true vertue pitties. He is a gentleman, because his nature Is kinde and affable to everie creature. Who would not then a simple shepheard bee, Rather than be a mightie monarch made? Since he injoyes such perfect libertie As never can decay, nor never fade: He seldome sits in dolefull cypresse shade, But lives in hope, in joy, in peace, in blisse, Joying all joy with this content of his. But now good fortune lands my little boate Upon the shoare of his desired rest: Now must I leave awhile my rurall noate, To thinke on him whom my soule loveth best; He that can make the most unhappie blest; In whose sweete lap Ile lay me downe to sleepe, And never wake till marble stones shall weepe. FINIS. SONNET. Loe here behold these tributarie teares Paid to thy faire but cruell tyrant eyes; Loe here the blossome of my youthfull yeares, Nipt with the fresh of thy wraths winter, dyes! Here on Loves altar I doo offer up This burning hart for my soules sacrifice; Here I receave this deadly-poysned cu[p] Of Circe charm'd, wherein deepe magicke lyes. Then teares, if you be happie teares indeed, And hart, if thou be lodged in his brest, And cup, if thou canst helpe despaire with speed, Teares, hart, and cup, conjoine to make me blest! Teares move, hart win, cup cause, ruth, love, desire, In word, in deed; by moane, by zeale, by fire. FINIS. THE COMPLAINT OF CHASTITIE, BRIEFELY TOUCHING THE CAUSE OF THE DEATH OF MATILDA FITZWALTERS, AN ENGLISH LADIE, SOMETIME LOVED OF KING JOHN, AFTER POYSONED. THE STORIE IS AT LARGE WRITTEN BY MICHAEL DREYTON. You modest dames, inricht with chastitie, Maske your bright eyes with Vestaes sable vaile, Since few are left so faire or chast as shee, Matter for me to weepe, you to bewaile! For manie seeming so, of Vertue faile, Whose lovely cheeks, with rare vermilion tainted, Can never blush, because their faire is painted. O faire-foule tincture, staine of woman kinde, Mother of Mischiefe, daughter of Deceate, False traitor to the soule, blot to the minde, Usurping tyrant of true beauties seate! Right cousner of the eye, lewd follies baite, The flag of filthines, the sinke of shame, The divells dye, dishonour of thy name!