A Song


— Shall I die? Shall I fly
— Lovers' baits and deceits, sorrow breeding?
— Shall I tend? Shall I send?
— Shall I sue, and not rue my proceeding?
— In all duty her beauty
Binds me her servant for ever.
— If she scorn, I mourn,
I retire to despair, joining never.


— Yet I must vent my lust
— And explain inward pain by my love conceiving.
— If she smiles, she exiles
— All my moan; if she frown, all my hopes deceiving —
— Suspicious doubt, O keep out,
For thou art my tormentor.
— Fie away, pack away;
I will love, for hope bids me venture.


— 'Twere abuse to accuse
— My fair love, ere I prove her affection.
— Therefore try! Her reply
— Gives thee joy — or annoy, or affliction.
— Yet howe'er, I will bear
Her pleasure with patience, for beauty
— Sure will not seem to blot
Her deserts, wronging him doth her duty.


— In a dream it did seem —
— But alas, dreams do pass as do shadows —
— I did walk, I did talk
— With my love, with my dove, through fair meadows.
— Still we passed till at last
We sat to repose us for pleasure.
— Being set, lips met,
Arms twined, and did bind my heart's treasure.


— Gentle wind sport did find
— Wantonly to make fly her gold tresses.
— As they shook I did look,
— But her fair did impair all my senses.
— As amazed, I gazed
On more than a mortal complexion.
— You that love can prove
Such force in beauty's inflection.


— Next her hair, forehead fair,
— Smooth and high; neat doth lie, without wrinkle,
— Her fair brows; under those,
— Star-like eyes win love's prize when they twinkle.
— In her cheeks who seeks
Shall find there displayed beauty's banner;
— O admiring desiring
Breeds, as I look still upon her.


— Thin lips red, fancy's fed
— With all sweets when he meets, and is granted
— There to trade, and is made
— Happy, sure, to endure still undaunted.
— Pretty chin doth win
Of all their culled commendations;
— Fairest neck, no speck;
All her parts merit high admirations.


— Pretty bare, past compare,
— Parts those plots which besots still asunder.
— It is meet naught but sweet
— Should come near that so rare 'tis a wonder.
— No mis-shape, no scape
Inferior to nature's perfection;
— No blot, no spot:
She's beauty's queen in election.


— Whilst I dreamt, I, exempt
— From all care, seemed to share pleasure's plenty;
— But awake, care take —
— For I find to my mind pleasures scanty.
— Therefore I will try
To compass my heart's chief contenting.
— To delay, some say,
In such a case causeth repenting.

" Upon a pair of gloves that master sent to his mistress"

The gift is small,
The will is all:
Alexander Aspinall
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