An Elegie

Come, Fates; I feare you not. All whom I oweAre paid, but you. Then rest me ere I goe.But, Chance from you all soveraignty hath got,Love woundeth none but those whom death dares not;Else, if you were, and just, in equitieI should have vanquish'd her, as you did me.Else Lovers should not brave death's pains, and live,But 'tis a rule, Death comes not to relieve.Or, pale and wan deaths terrours, are they lay'dSo deepe in Lovers, they make death afraid?Or (the least comfort) have I company?Orecame she Fates, Love, Death, as well as mee?Yes, Fates doe silke unto her distaffe pay,For their ransome, which taxe on us they laye.Love gives her youth, which is the reason whyYouths, for her sake, some wither and some die.Poore Death can nothing give; yet, for her sake,Still in her turne, he doth a Lover take:And if Death should prove false, she feares him not;Our Muses, to redeeme her she hath got.That fatall night wee last kiss'd, I thus pray'd,Or rather, thus despair'd; I should have said:Kisses, and yet despaire? The forbid treeDid promise (and deceive) no more then shee.Like Lambs that see their teats, and must eat Hay,A food, whose tast hath made me pine away.Dives, when thou saw'st blisse, and crav'dst to touchA drop of water, thy great paines were such.Here griefe wants a fresh wit, for mine being spent,And my sighes weary, groanes are all my rent;Vnable longer to indure the paine,They breake like thunder, and doe bring down rain.Thus, till dry teares soulder mine eyes, I weepe;And then, I dreame, how you securely sleepe,And in your dreames doe laugh at me. I hate,And pray Love, All may: He pitties my state,But sayes, I therein no revenge should finde;The Sunne would shine, though all the world were blind.Yet, to trie my hate, Love shew'd me your teare;And I had dy'd, had not your smile beene there.Your frowne undoes me; your smile is my wealth;And as you please to looke, I have my health.Me thought, Love pittying me, when he saw this,Gave me your hands, the backs and palmes to kisse.That cur'd me not, but to beare paine gave strength,And what it lost in force, it tooke in length.I call'd on Love againe, who fear'd you so,That his compassion still prov'd greater woe;For, then I dream'd I was in bed with you,But durst not feele, for feare't should not prove true.This merits not your anger, had it beene,The Queene of Chastitie was naked seene;And in bed, not to feele, the paine I tooke,Was more then for Actæon not to looke.And that brest which lay ope, I did not know,But for the clearnesse, from a lump of snowe,Nor that sweet teat which on the top it boreFrom the rose-bud, which for my sake you wore.These griefs to issue forth, by verse, I prove,Or turne their course, by travaile, or new love:All would not doe. The best at last I tryde:Unable longer to hould out I dyed.And then I found I lost life, death by flying:Who hundreds live are but soe long a dying.Charon did let me passe: I'le him requite.To marke the groves or shades wrongs my delight.I'le speake but of those ghosts I found alone,Those thousand ghosts, whereof myself made one,All images of thee. I ask'd them, why?The Judge told me, all they for thee did dye,And therefore had for their Elisian blisse,In one another their owne Loves to kisse.O here I miss'd not blisse, but being dead;For loe, I dream'd, I dream'd; and waking said,Heaven, if who are in thee there must dwell,How is't, I now was there, and now I fell.

Shall I goe force an Elegie? abuseMy witt? and breake the Hymen of my museFor one poore houres love? Deserves it suchWhich serves not me, to doe on her as much?Or if it could, I would that fortune shunn:Who would be rich, to be foe foone undone?The beggars best is, wealth he doth not know;And but to shew it him, encreases woe.But we two may enjoye an hour? when neverIt returnes, who would have a losse for ever?Nor can so short a love, if true, but bringA halfe howres feare, with the thought of losing:Before it, all howres were hope; and all are(That shall come after it,) yeares of dispaire.This joye brings this doubt, whether it were moreTo have enjoy'd it, or have died before?T'is a lost paradise, a fall from grace,Which I thinke, Adam felt more then his race.Nor need those angells any other Hell;It is enough for them, from Heaven they fell.Besides, Conquest in love is all in all;That when I liste, shee under me may fall:And for this turne, both for delight and view,I'le have a Succuba, as good as you.But when these toyes are past, and hott blood ends,The best enjoying is, we still are frends.Love can but be frendshipps outside; their twoBeauties differ, as myndes and bodies do.Thus, I this great Good still would be to take,Vnless one houre, another happy make:Or, that I might forgett it instantlie;Or in that blest estate, that I might die.But why doe I thus travaile in the skillOf despis'd poetrie, and perchance spillMy fortune? or undoe myself in sportBy having but that dangerous name in Court?I'le leave, and since I doe your poet prove,Keep you my lines as secret as my Love.

Elegie N, TCD (J. R.): Elegie to his M. promissing to lovehim an hour. HN (signed J. R.): An Elegy 1602. To MrsBoulstrede. Le Prince d'Amour. &c.

True Love findes witt, but he whose witt doth moveHim to love, confesses he doth not love:And from his witt, passions and true desireAre forc'd as hard, as from the flint is fire.My love's all fire whose flames my soule do nurse,Whose smokes are sighes; whose every sparke's a verse.Doth measure women win? Then I know whyMost of our Ladies with the Scotts doe lie.A Scott is measur'd in each syllable, terseAnd smooth as a verse: and like that smooth verseIs shallow, and wants matter, but in his handes,And they are rugged; Her state better standesWhom dauncing measures tempted, not the Scott:In brief she's out of measure, lost, soe gott.Greene-sickness wenches, (not needes must but) mayLooke pale, breathe short; at Court none so long stay.Good witt ne're despair'd there, or Ay me said:For never Wench at Court was ravished.And shee but cheates on Heaven, whom you so winneThinking to share the sport, but not the sinne.