Compare the love of faire Queene Guendolin With mine, and thou shalt [s]ee how she doth love thee: I love thee for thy qualities divine, But shee doth love another swaine above thee: I love thee for thy gifts, she for hir pleasure; I for thy vertue, she for beauties treasure. And alwaies, I am sure, it cannot last. But sometime Nature will denie those dimples: Insteed of beautie, when thy blossom's past, Thy face will be deformed full of wrinckles; Then she that lov'd thee for thy beauties sake, When age drawes on, thy love will soone forsake. But that I lov'd thee for thy gifts divine, In the December of thy beauties waning, Will still admire with joy those lovely eine, That now behold me with their beauties baning. Though Januarie will never come againe, Yet Aprill yeres will come in showers of raine. When will my May come, that I may embrace thee? When will the hower be of my soules joying? Why dost thou seeke in mirth still to disgrace mee? Whose mirth's my health, whose griefe's my harts annoying: Thy bane my bale, thy blisse my blessednes, Thy ill my hell, thy weale my welfare is. Thus doo I honour thee that love thee so, And love thee so, that so doo honour thee Much more than anie mortall man doth know, Or can discerne by love or jealozie: But if that thou disdainst my loving ever, Oh happie I, if I had loved never! FINIS. Plus fellis quam mellis amor. THE SECOND DAYES LAMENTATION OF THE AFFECTIONATE SHEPHEARD. Next morning, when the golden sunne was risen, And new had bid good morrow to the mountaines; When night her silver light had lockt in prison, Which gave a glimmering on the christall fountaines: Then ended sleepe, and then my cares began, Ev'n with the uprising of the silver swan. Oh, glorious sunne! quoth I, viewing the sunne, That lightenst everie thing but me alone: Why is my summer season almost done, My spring-time past, and ages autumne gone? My harvest's come, and yet I reapt no corne: My love is great, and yet I am forlorne. Witnes these watrie eyes my sad lament, Receaving cisternes of my ceaseles teares; Witnes my bleeding hart my soules intent, Witnes the weight distressed Daphnis beares: Sweet love, come ease me of thy burthens paine, Or els I die, or else my hart is slaine. And thou, love-scorning boy, cruell, unkinde, Oh, let me once againe intreat some pittie: May be thou wilt relent thy marble minde, And lend thine eares unto my dolefull dittie: Oh, pittie him, that pittie craves so sweetly, Or else thou shalt be never named meekly.