Aunswere to a Gentlewoman, by Love Constrained to Sue Him Whom of Late She Scorned, An -
An aunswere to a Gentlewoman, by love constrained to sue to him whom of late she scorned.
Nie driven to death by raging love, reviv'de by happie meanes,
I smile you seeke that erst you scornd with those your silver streames.
Now time performes, my words prove true, when as I was your thrall,
Your sugred joyes in flowting me would turne to bitter gall.
Else not the name of Goddesse just dame Venus doth deserve,
Unlesse her servauntes shee advaunce, and makes her foes to sterve.
Your scalding sighes, let witnes be, what sorrowes I sustainde,
When as with pitious plaintes I shewd the panges that most mee painde.
But thou, spronge up of tygers seede, ingratefull dame, I say,
When as with teares I su'de for grace, wouldst smile and goe thy way.
Now let mee laugh a while, I pray, to see the[e] plungde in paine;
This is the salve to cure the smart that thou art like to gaine.
For why the childe, but younge once burnt, the fierie flame doth dreed,
So I, once bounde and now am free, will tast no lovers meed.
The contemptuous lover, finding no grace where hee faithfully favoureth, acknowledgeth his former scorne, used toward love, to be the onely cause of his miseries.
In bondage as I live, attacht with Cupids mace,
Exilde from joy, bereft of blisse, past hope of future grace,
My selfe is judge, I do deserve
Without reliefe in paine to sterve.
I smilde, when I was free, at those which fettred ware,
But I (God wott) with beauties baite was caught in Cupids snare
When least I thought of such a woe,
My choice in chaunge was fleating foe.
But now with soaking sighes to one I sue for grace,
Whose presence when I do approch, she straight doth shunne the place.
My fight, my sighes, my teares nor truth,
Her stoanie heart can move to ruth.
Yet love, that lives by hope, afresh enforsed mee to prove,
With pen to pleade what bashfull tongue dismayed was to move
But loe in vaine to her I write,
For love my guerdon is despight.
I serve a froward saint, a tigers whelpe I troe,
Shee smiles to see mee wade in smart, her wish my wretched woe.
And yet in truth shee blamelesse is,
My onely fault inforceth this.
She is but instrument, my selfe the very cause,
Why I consume with cureles griefe for scorning Cupids lawes:
Wherefore (sith love is sworne my foe)
Divorce mee, death, from lingring woe.
And then for others heede this sillie boune I crave,
That I uppon my timelesse tombe this epitaphe may have:
The thing that causde mee here to lie
Was scorning love at libertie.
Nie driven to death by raging love, reviv'de by happie meanes,
I smile you seeke that erst you scornd with those your silver streames.
Now time performes, my words prove true, when as I was your thrall,
Your sugred joyes in flowting me would turne to bitter gall.
Else not the name of Goddesse just dame Venus doth deserve,
Unlesse her servauntes shee advaunce, and makes her foes to sterve.
Your scalding sighes, let witnes be, what sorrowes I sustainde,
When as with pitious plaintes I shewd the panges that most mee painde.
But thou, spronge up of tygers seede, ingratefull dame, I say,
When as with teares I su'de for grace, wouldst smile and goe thy way.
Now let mee laugh a while, I pray, to see the[e] plungde in paine;
This is the salve to cure the smart that thou art like to gaine.
For why the childe, but younge once burnt, the fierie flame doth dreed,
So I, once bounde and now am free, will tast no lovers meed.
The contemptuous lover, finding no grace where hee faithfully favoureth, acknowledgeth his former scorne, used toward love, to be the onely cause of his miseries.
In bondage as I live, attacht with Cupids mace,
Exilde from joy, bereft of blisse, past hope of future grace,
My selfe is judge, I do deserve
Without reliefe in paine to sterve.
I smilde, when I was free, at those which fettred ware,
But I (God wott) with beauties baite was caught in Cupids snare
When least I thought of such a woe,
My choice in chaunge was fleating foe.
But now with soaking sighes to one I sue for grace,
Whose presence when I do approch, she straight doth shunne the place.
My fight, my sighes, my teares nor truth,
Her stoanie heart can move to ruth.
Yet love, that lives by hope, afresh enforsed mee to prove,
With pen to pleade what bashfull tongue dismayed was to move
But loe in vaine to her I write,
For love my guerdon is despight.
I serve a froward saint, a tigers whelpe I troe,
Shee smiles to see mee wade in smart, her wish my wretched woe.
And yet in truth shee blamelesse is,
My onely fault inforceth this.
She is but instrument, my selfe the very cause,
Why I consume with cureles griefe for scorning Cupids lawes:
Wherefore (sith love is sworne my foe)
Divorce mee, death, from lingring woe.
And then for others heede this sillie boune I crave,
That I uppon my timelesse tombe this epitaphe may have:
The thing that causde mee here to lie
Was scorning love at libertie.
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