love poems for her

ACT IV. SCENE I.

A Room in Rufaldo's House .

Enter ANTONIO , drest in Selina's apparel, with HILARIA .

Ant. Have I not done my part, wench, with confidence to proceed thus far with thy father? Either I am infinitely like my sister, or they are all mad with credulity: but our good fathers are blinded with their passions, and that helps me much. Well, I do but think upon the night's work; there lies my masterpiece; I have it, it is for thy sake, Hilaria, I have assumed this habit, the end will speak it.
Hil. But what will you do? Antonio is lost now.

ACT III. SCENE I.

A Room in Rufaldo's House .

Enter RUFALDO .

ACT II. SCENE I

A Room in Rufaldo's House .

Enter BUBULCUS .

Bub. If I were a woman, now could I fall in love with myself: every body tells me I am the properest gentleman in the town, and I put it up; for the truth is, I dare not give any one the lie. A pox o' fighting! I can look as big as another, but shall I be such an ass, to venture myself with beasts? for they say your swords most commonly are foxes, and have notable metal in them. — Let me see, I am now at Rufaldo's, my father-in-law that must be; here he is —

ACT I. SCENE I.

The Street before Cornelio's House .

Enter ANTONIO and GASPARO .

Ant . Sirrah, this Welshman is in love with my sister Selina, and hath chosen me for his prolocutor.
Gasp . Oh! this love will make us all mad; thou knowest I loved a sister of thine once; but heaven knows where she is: I think she loved me too; dost think she did not? Well, thy father has reason to curse himself, beside some that she and I have.

It is a principle by nature wrote
In all our understanding, there is not
One art or action but it must tend,
And move from some beginning, to its end.
The soldiers, that wear the honour'd bays
Upon their brows, and glorious trophies raise
To fame on pile of wounds, knew a time when
They suck'd at war: your Muse-inspired men
And of diviner earth, sacred for wit,
Crept out of their first elements to it:
The goodliest harvest had first seed and hope,
Ere it could lade with an enriching crop

For wantons heede heere wrayed is the thrall,
Of loving wormes, how both they freese and frie,
How sweetest thoughtes are sawst with bitter gall.
How care them cloyes that live in jelousie,
What yll successe stolne marriages ensue,
How forst consentes sield beare a loving hart,
How sugred woordes to[o] late faire ladies rue,
How vaine they strive that lovers seeke to part,
How envious tongues are apt to sowe debate,
How fancie bringes the stoutest mindes in awe,
How lovers wrongde from love do fall to hate,

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,

The lover, wearied with a number of delayes, sues unto his Ladie for pitie, or otherwise her speedie denyall, by death to worke a speedie dispatch of his languishing dayes.

If pitie may prevaile to pearse your hart with ruth,
Sweete maisters, lend your liftning eare to heare your servants truth,
Whose faith hath chose you judge, and jurie if you please;
If not, desart shal trye this cause your deintie mynd to ease.
The whole record is writ for rasing with my teares,
My witnesse is my withered corps, ny famished with feares:

A Sonet, wherin is showne the straunge effectes of love.

In care I joy, my mirth is mov'd by mone,
With flouds of want I weare to ebbe my wo;
Appayd I rest in restlesse griefe to grone,
By fainting hope my friendly hap doth growe:
In waves of bale I bathe in wished blisse,
My wealth in woe, in paine my pleasure is.

But how these hang, if so she search my harme,
These fewe suffice the same to shew (my sweete):
To rayse her joy my selfe I wholy arme,
To freese or fry as she shall deeme it meete,

The Lover attributeth his curelesse wound to chaunce, by loving long.

Long have I lost my libertie,
Alas! through love (long) have I so.
(Long) have I stoode in jeopardie.
In loving (long) through pyning woe,
Whose constant truth long hath ben tryde,
Though (long) his suit hath ben denyde.

My batterie (long) the brasen wall
The cannon shot doth cleane deface,
The longest trees in time doe fall,
Which (long) before bad Boreas base:
The little brooke in running (long)
Doth turne into a river strong.