Montemayor's Diana

Page 114

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and beginning to talke with her, her speech (me thought) and countenance was not like to her former lookes & communication. She prayed me to sing, for she was greatly delighted with songs & musick: And I was then so trustles & misconceiuing of my selfe, that I thought she bad me sing, not for any pleasure that she took by hea∣ring me, but to passe away the time, and only to entertaine my companie with such a request: so that I then wanted time to tell her the whole summe of my greefe. But I who employed my minde in nothing else, but to do whatsoeuer my Lady Xarifa commanded me, in the Arabicke toong began to sing this song, whereby I gaue her to vnderstand the crueltie that I suspected of her.

IF thy soft Haires be threds of shining gold,
Vnder the shade of which are two faire Eies,
(Two sunnes) whose Brow like heauen doth them vphold,
Rubie thy Mouth, and lips where Corall lies?
Could Cristall want, to frame thy Necke so white,
And Diamond, to make thy Brest so bright?

Thy hart is not vnlike vnto thy Brest,
Since that the flight of mettall of thy Haire
Did neuer make thee turne thy Necke at lest,
Nor with thine Eies giue hope, but cold despaire.
Yet from that sugred Mouth hope for an I,
And from that snowe-white Brow, that makes me die.

Ah beautifull, and yet most bitter Brow,
And may there be a Brest so hard and faire,
So sweete a necke, and yet so stiffe to bow,
So rich, and yet so couetous a Haire?
Who euer sawe so cleere and cruell Eies,
So sweete a Mouth, yet mooues not to my cries.

Enuious Loue my Necke doth chaine with spite,
His passions make my Brow looke pale and swart,
He makes mine Eies to leese their deerest light,
And in my Brest doth kill my trembling hart.
He makes my Haire to stand in ghastly wise,
Yet in thy Mouth all wordes of comfort dies.

O sweetest face, and lips more perfect faire,
Then I may tell; O soft and daintie Necke,
O golden Raies of yonder Sunne, not Haire,
O Cristalline Brow, and Mouth with Rubie deckt,
O equall white and red, O Diamond Brest,
From these faire Eies when shall I hope for rest?

But if a (No) by turning of thine Eies,
Harke yet what saith her sweetest Mouth to me?
See if her hardnes in her Brest yet lies,

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