Song 5

While favour fed my hope, delight with hope was brought,Thought waited on delight, and speach did follow thought,Then drew my tongue and pen records unto thy glorie;I thought all words were lost that were not spent of thee,I thought each place was darke but where thy lights would be,And all eares worse than deaffe, that heard not out thy storie.

I said thou wert most faire, and so indeede thou art;I said thou wert most sweete, sweete poyson to my hart;I said my soule was thine, ô would I then had lied;I said thy eyes were starres, thy breasts the milken way,Thy fingers Cupids shafts, thy voice the Angels lay:And all is said so well, that no man it denied.

But now that hope is lost, unkindnes kils delight,Yet thought and speach do live, thought metamorphisde quite,For rage now rules the reynes, which guided were by pleasure,I thinke now of thy faults, who late wrote of thy praise,That speech falls now to blame which did thy honour raise:The same key open can, which can locke up a treasure.

Then thou whom partiall heavens conspir’d in one to frameThe proofe of beauties worke, the inheritance of fame,The mansion state of blisse, and just excuse of lovers:See now those feathers pluckt wherewith thou flewest most hie,See what cloudes of reproach shall darke thy honours skie;Whom fault once casteth downe, hardly high state recovers.

And ô my Muse, though oft you luld her in your lap,And then a heavenly Childe gave her Ambrosian pap,And to that braine of hers your highest gifts infused:Since she disdaining me, doth you in me disdaine,Suffer not her to laugh, and both we suffer paine:Princes in subjects wrongd must deeme themselves abused.

Your client poore, my selfe, shall Stella handle so,Revenge, revenge, my Muse defiance trumpet blowe,Threat, threat, what may be done; yet do no more but threaten:Ah, my sute granted is, I feele my breast doth swell;Now Childe, a lesson new you shall begin to spell,Sweet babes must babies have, but shrewd girles must be beaten.

Thinke now no more to heare of warme fine shining snow,Nor blushing Lillyes, nor pearles Rubie hidden row,Nor of that golden sea, whose waves in curles are broken:But of thy soule fraught with such ungratefulnesse,As where thou soone mightst help, most there thou dost oppresse:Ungratefull who is cald, the worst of ills is spoken.

Yet worse than worse, I say thou art a Thiefe. A thiefe?Now God forbid: a thiefe, and of worst thieves a thiefe;Thieves steale for neede, & steale for goods, which paine recovers:But thou, rich in all joyes, dost rob my goods from mee,Which cannot be restorde by time nor industrie:Of foes the spoyle is evill, farre more of constant lovers.

Yet gentle English thieves doo rob, and will not slay;Thou English murdring thiefe, wilt have hearts for thy pray.The name of murdrer now on thy faire forhead sitteth,And even while I do speake my death wounds bleeding bee,Which I protest proceed from onely cruell thee.Who may and will not save, murther in trueth committeth.

But murthers private fault seemes but a toy to thee.I lay then to thy charge unjustice Tirannie,If rule by force without all claime, a Tyrant sheweth;For thou art my hearts Lord, who am not borne thy slave,And which is worse makes me most guiltles torments have.A rightfull Prince by unrightfull deeds a Tyrant groweth.

Loe you grow proud with this, for Tyrants makes folks bow:Of foule rebellion then I do appeach thee now,Rebels by Natures lawes rebell by way of reason:Thou sweetest subject wert borne in the Realme of Love,And yet against thy Prince, thy force dost daily prove.No vertue merits praise, once toucht with blot of Treason.

But valiant Rebels oft in fooles mouthes purchase fame,I now then staine thy white with blackest blot of shame,Both Rebel to the Sonne, and vagrant from the Mother,For wearing Venus badge, in every part of thee,Unto Dianaes traine thou runnaway didst flie:Who faileth one is false, though trustie to another.

What is not this enough, nay farre worse commeth here:A Witch I say thou art, though thou so faire appeare.For I protest, mine eyes never thy sight enjoyeth,But I in mee am chang’d, I am alive and dead.My feete are turn’d to rootes, my heart becommeth lead,No witchcraft is so ill, as which mans minde destroyeth.

Yet Witches may repent, thou art farre worse than they:Alas, that I am forst such evill of thee to say:I say thou art a Divel though cloathd in Angels shining:For thy face tempts my soule to leave the heavens for thee,And thy words of refuse doo powre even hell on mee:Who tempts, and tempting plagues are Divels in true defining.

You then ungrateful theefe, you murthering Tirant you,You Rebell runnaway, to Lord and Lady untrue,You Witch, you Divel (alas) you still in me beloved,You see what I can say: mend yet your froward minde,And such skill in my Muse you reconcil’d shall finde,That by these cruell words your praises shal be proved.