Ultimum Vale, or the Third Booke of Ayres

At her fair hands how have I grace entreated
With prayers oft repeated!
Yet still my love is thwarted:
Heart, let her go, for she'll not be converted
Say, shall she go? O no, no, no!
She is most fair, though she be marble-hearted.

How often have my sighs declared my anguish,
Wherein I daily languish!
Yet still she doth procure it:
Heart, let her go, for I cannot endure it
Say, shall she go? O no, no, no!
She gave the wound, and she alone must cure it.

But if the love that hath and still doth burn me
No love at length return me,
Out of my thoughts I'll set her:
Heart, let her go, O heart, I pray thee, let her!
Say, shall she go? O no, no, no!
Fix'd in the heart, how can the heart forget her?

Oft have I mused the cause to find
  Why Love in lady’s eyes should dwell;
I thought, because himself was blind,
  He look’d that they should guide him well:
And sure his hope but seldom fails,
For Love by ladies’ eyes prevails.

But time at last hath taught me wit,
  Although I bought my wit full dear;
For by her eyes my heart is hit,
  Deep is the wound though none appear:
Their glancing beams as darts he throws,
And sure he hath no shafts but those.

I mused to see their eyes so bright,
  And little thought they had been fire;
I gazed upon them with delight,
  But that delight hath bred desire:
What better place can Love desire
Than that where grow both shafts and fire?

      Happy he
    Who, to sweet home retired,
    Shuns glory so admired,
      And to himself lives free,
Whilst he who strives with pride to climb the skies
Falls down with foul disgrace before he rise.

      Let who will
    The active life commend
    And all his travels bend
      Earth with his fame to fill:
Such fame, so forced, at last dies with his death,
Which life maintain’d by others’ idle breath.

      My delights,
    To dearest home confined,
    Shall there make good my mind
      Not aw’d with fortune’s spites:
High trees heaven blasts, winds shake and honors fell,
When lowly plants long time in safety dwell.

      All I can,
    My worldly strife shall be
    They one day say of me
      ‘He died a good old man’:
On his sad soul a heavy burden lies
Who, known to all, unknown to himself dies.

Sweet Love, my only treasure,
  For service long unfeignèd
  Wherein I nought have gainèd,
Vouchsafe this little pleasure,
  To tell me in what part
  My Lady keeps her heart.

If in her hair so slender,
  Like golden nets entwinèd
  Which fire and art have finèd,
Her thrall my heart I render
  For ever to abide
  With locks so dainty tied.

If in her eyes she bind it,
  Wherein that fire was framèd
  By which it is inflamèd,
I dare not look to find it:
  I only wish it sight
  To see that pleasant light.

But if her breast have deignèd
  With kindness to receive it,
  I am content to leave it
Though death thereby were gainèd:
  Then, Lady, take your own
  That lives by you alone.

What if I sped where I least expected, 
what shall I saye? Shall I lye?
What if I mist where most affected, what shall I do, shall I dye?
No, no one, Ile have at all,
Tis as my game doth fall,
If I keepe my meaning close,
I may hit how ere it goes,
For time & I
Do meane to try
What hope doth lye in youth, falala.
The minds that doubt
Are in & out,
& women flout at truth: falala.

She whome above the skies I renowned, she whome I loved, shee,
Can she leave all in leathe drowned, can she be coy to me?
Her passions are but cold,
She stands and doth beholde,
She retaines her lookes estrangde,
As if in heaven and earth were changde.
I speake, she heares,
I touch, she feares,
Herein appeares her wit, falala:
I catch, she flies,
I hold, she cries,
And still denies, and yet falala.

May not a wanton looke like a woman, tell me the reason why?
And if a blindE man chance of birdes nest, must bhe be pratling? Fye.
What mortall strength can keepe,
That's got as in sleepe:
The felony is his
Tha brags of a stoln kis:
For when we met,
Both in a net,
That Vulcan set, were hid, falala:
And so god wot
We did it not,
Or else forgot we did. Falala.

Shall I look to ease my grief?
  No, my sight is lost with eying:
Shall I speak and beg relief?
  No, my voice is hoarse with crying:
  What remains but only dying?

Love and I of late did part,
  But the boy, my peace envying,
Like a Parthian threw his dart
  Backward, and did wound me flying:
  What remains but only dying?

She whom then I lookèd on,
  My remembrance beautifying,
Stays with me though I am gone,
  Gone and at her mercy lying:
  What remains but only dying?

Shall I try her thoughts and write?
  No I have no means of trying:
If I should, yet at first sight
  She would answer with denying:
  What remains but only dying?

Thus my vital breath doth waste,
  And, my blood with sorrow drying,
Sighs and tears make life to last
  For a while, their place supplying:
  What remains but only dying?

Now have I learn'd with much ado at last
  By true disdain to kill desire;
This was the mark at which I shot so fast,
  Unto this height I did aspire:
Proud Love, now do thy worst and spare not,
For thee and all thy shafts I care not.

What hast thou left wherewith to move my mind,
  What life to quicken dead desire?
I count thy words and oaths as light as wind,
  I feel no heat in all thy fire:
Go, change thy bow and get a stronger,
Go, break thy shafts and buy thee longer.

In vain thou bait’st thy hook with beauty’s blaze,
  In vain thy wanton eyes allure;
These are but toys for them that love to gaze,
  I know what harm thy looks procure:
Some strange conceit must be devised,
Or thou and all thy skill despised.

Think'st thou, Kate, to put me down
With a ‘No’ or with a frown?
Since Love holds my heart in bands
I must do as Love commands.

Love commands the hands to dare
When the tongue of speech is spare,
Chiefest lesson in Love’s school, —
Put it in adventure, fool!

Fools are they that fainting flinch
For a squeak, a scratch, a pinch:
Women’s words have double sense:
‘Stand away!’ — a simple fence.

If thy mistress swear she’ll cry,
Fear her not, she’ll swear and lie:
Such sweet oaths no sorrow bring
Till the prick of conscience sting.

Goe to bed sweete Muze take thy rest,
Let not thy soule bee so opprest
Though shee deny thee,
Whether shee deny thee,
Whether thy mind
Will ever prove unkinde:
O love is but a bitter-sweete Jest.

Muze not upon her smiling lookes,
Thinke that they are but baited hookes,
Love is a fancy,
Love is a Franzy,
Let not a toy
Then breed thee such annoy,
But leave to looke uppon such fond bookes.

Lerne to forget such idle toyes,
Fitter for youthes, and youthfull boyes,
Let not one sweet smile
Thy true one sweet smile
Thy true love beguile,
Let not a frowne
For ever cast thee downe,
Then sleepe and go to bed in these joyes.

Sweet if you like and love me stil,
And yeeld me love my good wil,
And do not from your promise start
When your fair hand gave me your hart,
If dear to you I be,
As you are dear to me,
Then yours I am, and wil be ever,
No time nor place my love shall sever,
But faithfull still I will persever,
Like constant Marble stone,
Loving but you alone.

But if you favour moe than me,
(Who loves thee still, and none but thee,)
if others do the harvest gaine,
that's due to me for all my paine:
yet that you love to range,
and oft to chop and change,
then get you some new fangled mate:
My doting love shal turne to hate,
Esteeming you (though too late)
Not worth a peble stone,
Loving not me alone.